


The Blue Vial

by Kamah



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Healing Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape Aftermath, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 96,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7375144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamah/pseuds/Kamah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa arrives at Castle Black as shown in 6x04 with fresh and permanent scars all over her body. With no maester to attend to the damage, it's up to Jon...and perhaps one of Melisandre's mysterious potions to help her heal. But what are the side effects of this strange healing treatment?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jon I

**Author's Note:**

> First fic, first time even attempting to write in an old-English or medieval setting, so I apologize in advance for any misuse of language or description of clothes, objects, etc. Apologies also for spelling and grammatical mistakes. No beta or editor. 
> 
> Season 6 of the show, especially 6x04 got into my bones and now I just have to write a fic about them. That reunion hug! That forgiveness Sansa forced on Jon while drinking ale and soup! Their trust issues (or her trust issues)! It's just too cute and dramatic to ignore. I need to indulge a little past what I saw on screen. 
> 
> This is mostly based on the TV characters, so I tailored the story to be within show canon with little divergence, which also meant writing Sansa to be very frustrating and Jon to be a little naive (or stupid). Hopefully you don't hate them too much. There will be 9 POV chapters for Jon and 9 POV Chapters for Sansa.
> 
> Jon is up first!

**Jon I**

 

Jon had awakened to life still clutching the nothingness of death much the same way he had faded to death, clutching for life. The breath that brought him back had been full of fear, and confusion, and despair, feelings that did not exist in the state beyond. In fact there were no feelings at all. Just a nothingness that he couldn't articulate to the living.

They asked did he see dead kin, or friends, or gods. Did he connect to the memories of the trees. He kept responding that he didn't see anything. He didn't feel anything. He didn't connect to anything. “There's nothing.” He wasn't a singer. He had no poetic way of describing what he knew.

The nothingness frustrated the men around him. Most of them believed in something beyond. A paradise, a punishment – something, anything that made clear the meaning of their deeds, the good and the bad. “Maybe you were in one of the seven hells,” Edd had offered with a shrug and worn smile. “Maybe you hadn't earned heaven.”

“Or maybe this is one of the seven hells,” Jon had responded as he looked around at the faces of men that had fought with him against the ice demons beyond the wall. “Maybe we all died back there and this is our lousy reward.”

The futility of the fight weighed on him, especially since the reward of victory or the pain of defeat was relative to a moment, it mattered little in the shadows of eternity. Nothing awaited the righteous and nothing awaited the wicked. What was the point of fighting, or living, or dying?

Jon had executed the brothers that murdered him and left the brotherhood that he'd grown to love. Now all he desired was warmth. He no longer had a reason to fight, so he was going to sell his Valerian Steel sword. It would fetch a high price, enough to get him south, or perhaps across the Narrow Sea, to one of the free cities where he could fornicate with whores, drink the sweet and spicy wines of the east, and enjoy the warmth of the the cities that were free from the dark winds that followed the demons out of the Land of Always Winter.

Indulgence was all that was left to him, his ability to chase after and receive pleasure. That path led to lust, gluttony, and sloth, but the sum of the sins added up to nothing anyway. At least he wouldn't die cold. At least there was that.

And then Jon heard the horn blow, followed by “Open the gates.”

The Night's Watch were servants of the realm, which meant the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms were welcomed to pay them visits at any time. They rarely did, but Jon had given them cause for a visit after bringing the Widlings into their home. _This may be Roose Bolton, Warden of the North_

Lord Bolton would have been irate that the Lord Commander had boldly broken the tradition of fighting the Wildlings, and instead invited them into the realm.

He imagined a thousand Bolton soldiers at the gate, swords drawn, crossbows pointed, ready to imprison, then flay the man that gave the orders. But when Jon stepped out of the door into the icy snow of the courtyard, his fears melted into pools of relief as he stared down at a red flame, dancing in the wind, burning strong and bright.

Each step down the balcony brought him closer to this beautifully perfect flame, and moved him further away from the darkness at his back. He embraced the flame and it felt as if he was feeling warmth for the first time.

Jon thought about the songs he had always heard, about chivalrous knights, and warriors, and kings that became legends during the Age of Heroes. Jon had once dreamed of being one of those great figures that rescued a beautiful lady in distress.

He never thought that _he would be the one that needed to be rescued._

**

Hearing Sansa Stark laugh was surreal, so much that he wasn't even sure that this was real. That this wasn't some lucid dream that he would awaken from, even more depressed than before. Or that he wasn't dead, and reuniting with his sister was just the beginning of a paradise that would eventually lead him to Robb, Rickon, Bran, Ygritte, father, and Arya.

Only when they reminisced about leaving the comfort and security of Winterfell did it sink in that their reunion was real, albeit bittersweet, only a reality because of the humiliation and displacement of their family.

Jon contemplated their next move as she sipped her soup and got warm next to the crackling fire in his bedchamber. He wanted to take her south with him, where he could protect her. It was craven, abandoning the North, but although Sansa had restored his will to live for something, he still wasn't up for fighting. He had died for the realm. As far as he was concerned, no man alive could say the same. But there she was, telling him that Winterfell was their home, and she was going to fight to take it back.

He could handle being craven in front of the entire realm, but not his red-haired sister.

“I want you to help me,” she said before a slight pause, as if to let Jon know that her determination did not depend on his strength, or lack there of. She was the hero of this story. “But I'll do it myself if I have to.” Jon nodded but couldn't help the tiny but frustrated chuckle that escaped from his mouth. She raised an eyebrow. “What's funny?”

“You've grown up.” She was taller than him now, but that wasn't what he meant. She looked as if she didn't know whether to take his comment as offense or praise. He followed up with something clearer.“You've grown to be a very strong woman.”

“And this amuses you?”

“It inspires me,” he answered quickly, leaving no room for her to misinterpret the compliment.

He wanted to tell her that his laughter was related to the fact that red-heads were forever molding him. Catelyn Stark, Ygritte, even Melisandre. His life had been given meaning and direction by these women. Cat made him reflect on the purpose of his life. Ygritte made him want to create life. Mel brought him back to life.

He remembered when Melisandre had come to him, revealing her breast, straddling his lap, somehow smelling like the musk of Ygritte's furs, and the earthy funk of her hair. The scent couldn't be described to another person as pleasant, but it always drove Jon wild with lust. And somehow, Mel had captured the scent on her breast, on her breath, in her hair, and the heat of her cunt.

He had managed to avoid falling into the trap between her legs. She left him in the room, but only after telling him that he knew nothing. Now he felt like he knew even less than that. He had a much stronger sense of direction before he had been murdered. Now it appeared as if he would follow wherever Sansa willed him to go. And for now he was content with that.

He smiled at her as she hugged his Direwolf. Ghost eagerly licked at her face, indicating his fondness and like the North, he remembered. Sansa may have been indifferent to Jon, and even her other brothers to an extent, but she had always loved each of their wolves. She had once remarked to Jon that Ghost had a beautiful coat of white fur, and that out of all of the Stark kids, Jon picked out the best name for his wolf. Well, second only to Lady, of course. It may have been the only compliment she had ever given him, so he remembered it well.

Suddenly, Sansa turned to Jon, her eyes brimming with curiosity. “Jon, may I see your wounds?” She stood up then and took a step towards him.

“My wounds?” He leaned forward in his chair.

“Your dagger wounds,” she said pointing to his chest. “I want to see what they did to you.”

She had been nonplussed when he told her that he had been murdered and brought back by the Red Woman. He sensed that she might not have believed him, even with Davos and Edd confirming that the story was true. But if she didn't believe him, she never said so.

He stood up. She reached for ale and took a sip. “It's not a pretty sight,” he said as he brought his hands to his leather armor. Armor that had not been enough to protect him from the rain of daggers.

“I'm not expecting beauty.” She sat the ale back down and wiped her mouth. “Show me the horrors you have faced.”

Jon nodded before walking closer to the fire, both to keep his warmth, and so she had enough light to see. They didn't have many candles lit in his bedchamber. He liked it that way.

She followed closely behind. He lifted the armor over his head and dropped it to the old wood floor, his back turned to her, so she couldn't see his face flushing red. Ghost briefly turned his head toward the noise but went back into a rest as Jon quickly removed his padded doublet, letting it fall on top of his armor. The heat of the flame against his naked chest didn't compare to the heat he felt at his back from her eyes. His sister had seen him shirtless before, back when they were children.

Robb, and Theon, and Jon were always wrestling, fighting, trying to showcase their masculinity, especially when ladies were around. Jon might have walked around shirtless a time or two to display his growing muscles whenever Sansa and her friend Jeyne Poole were doing needlework, though Robb was most probably the one Jeyne always noticed. He was always broader in chest, and taller. And he wasn't a bastard.

And then there was the time Jon and Robb swam in their youthful nudity in Winterfell's hot springs. Arya was there too, swimming and splashing water at them, Jon recalled, while Sansa sat on the outside refusing to join.

But this was different than those childhood moments. Everything had changed. He was a man. And Sansa was clearly a woman.

He let out a deep breath when he turned towards his sister. He felt ashamed. His wounds were more than just remnants of a murder, they were reminders of his failure. Each blade shaped wound represented an individual betrayal. Each wound represented a moment where a brother felt that Jon deserved to die. “For the watch,” Jon blurted out loud. “That is what they said as they stabbed me.”

He realized then that he had been looking at the floor, avoiding her eyes. When he finally found her stare, he saw that she was studying his chest, reading his wounds like words of a story that both fascinated and horrified her. She took steps to him and placed her soft fingers on his chest, slowly, gently, as if his skin were brittle. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” _The pain is deeper than that._

He ignored the instinct to cover his wounds, the same way one would cover their privates when naked and exposed before an audience.

She ran her thumb across the deep gash above his heart before sliding her hand until it covered his shame. She let it rest there for a few uncertain moments. “Your heart still beats.”

“Aye. I'm alive.”

She continued reading him, exploring him, touching each of his seven openings, tracing her fingers along the edges of dried blood and exposed meat until her finger stopped at his nipple. She pinched the flesh and twisted it. He didn't know fingers that soft could produce such a painful sensation.

“Sansa!” he jerked away from her touch, unable to find cause for her violence.

She only smiled. “I'm sorry Jon, but I had to know if there was still something human there. Now I know you still feel pain.”

“Very much,” he hissed out before his annoyance settled into amusement. “I'm still human.”

She giggled. “But how human? Do you bleed? Do you still belch, and piss, and shit, and love and hate just the same?”

“I'm still me,” he assured her, though he couldn't help but smirk at her using the word _shit_. She had always been prudish about vulgarities. Maybe she was the one that had been changed beyond recognition. “I'm still your brother, Sansa.”

“The Wildlings think you are something else,” she countered, continuing to press him on the issue that something must be different. “They speak of you as a god.”

“Not all of em,” he grinned. “Tormund, the one with the big orange beard and dark eyes. He says my pecker is too small for a god.”

They both shared a laugh together. It felt so good to laugh.

“Your pecker?” she said with sarcasm, mocking the colloquial language of the free folk.

“Yeah,” he folded his arms. “Do I need to show you that too to prove I'm still me?”

"Yes Jon, I need to see your small pecker," she rolled her eyes. "It's the only way I'll ever believe your tales of ice demons, mammoths, giants, death, and resurrection."

"Well you've already seen the giant Wun-Wun." He knelt down for his garments so he could dress himself. "He's the last of his kind, sadly."

"We're the last of our kind," she said with a chilling look before she walked over to Jon's bed and sat down. "I wish Father were here." Jon thought she was going to settle into a depression over Ned Stark's death but instead she laughed. "He told me giants were gone. I wish I could see his face as he came to know this Wun-Wun and tell him that he was wrong. Father hated to be wrong."

It was true. Father did not like being corrected on issues he thought were settled. That truth brought more laughter from Jon as he finished dressing and walked over to sit with her on the bed. "I wish I could see his face when I told him the White Walkers were not just old legends. That they were real." For some reason, this didn't amuse him as much as the giant revelation did. Perhaps because The White Walkers were not friends. Jon had seen with his own eyes what they could do to an entire village of people in short time. _What they will do to all of us._

When Sansa laughed, he decided not to dampen her mood with his sense of dread.

Sansa kicked off her knee-high boots and cold socks so she could sit without awkwardness on the bed. Jon removed his boots as well, adding to the casual mood that had been set. They settled into bed, laughing into the night, coloring half-forgotten memories, remembering their siblings, all while moving closer and closer until she was comfortably resting on his chest, her head right where the hole in his heart had been. She told him that Theon had lied about murdering Bran and Rickon and that Rickon was most likely with the Umbers at Last Hearth. He told her that Bran had been led north of The Wall. Jon had lost the hope of Bran being alive and was still distraught that he couldn't save him but Sansa wouldn't let him wallow in any self pity.

"Bran always did love going on adventures," she mused. "Ice demons, ice spiders, magic, and the great unknown? Sounds well suited for that adventurous little boy. " She pushed out a little laugh. "If he gets any hint of the White Walkers, perhaps that will frighten the life back into his legs, and he'll run, run, run back to The Wall. Then he could recapture his love of climbing and scale that wall like he used to scale every wall and tower back home."

"Perhaps," Jon said with a muted smile, not knowing if Sansa was being optimistic for his return or if that was her way of grieving for him.

"I miss the way Bran used to always ask questions. He was so curious about everything. _Everything._ What does this word mean, why do we have to do this, why do we have to eat that, he even once asked me to explain to him why boys had nipples if they could not feed babes."

Jon choked out a laugh. "And what did you say?"

"Who knows," she said with a shrug. "I made something up that didn't satisfy him and he accused me of not knowing. I got mad at him for thinking I didn't know what I was talking about."

"Even though you clearly didn't."

"He didn't need to know that," she said as she nudged him with her elbow. "I believe he went and asked Maester Luwin. Hopefully he got an answer that pleased him."

"Probably not. Bran had an appetite that always left him hungry for more. Answers to questions only made him more curious. Even if Maester Luwin gave a logical answer, Bran would have likely went to Old Nan, Robb, Theon, and your Mother to ask the same question and compare their responses."

"You're right," she agreed. "I'll always miss that about him. And Robb's wisdom and warm laughter. And Arya's fiery spirit. And even little Rickon's temper."

"You can't," Jon disagreed with a wide smile. "You hated how feral our littlest brother was."

"I have grown to miss the things I used to hate," she insisted. "Sure he had a penchant for disobeying everything Mother and I asked of him, but he's a Stark. This is the North. We have to be a little feral. And truthfully, after being south with ladies, lords, and lads that disguise their intentions with pleasantries, perfumes, and kisses, while secretly hating you and plotting to destroy you - it makes me appreciate simpler, truthful demeanor. Being in King's Landing, surrounded by disingenuous laughter, it only made my heart grow fonder of the way Arya would laugh at me whenever Rickon would do something unruly and then run away from me like a brat. At least those laughs had no subtext to read."

"Arya did used to laugh at you a lot," Jon thought back, remembering how much the two sisters seemed to hate each other. A deep sadness suddenly overtook him. He was glad to have Sansa back, but Arya, gods did he miss her, and wish she was around so he could muss her hair. He also felt terribly wrong for feeling like it should have been Arya that showed up at the gates instead of Sansa, that Arya should have been there with him now. He mussed Sansa's already messy red hair, hoping she could not sense the ugly thought that he was trying to chase away from his mind. "You didn't seem too fond of her either."

"I regret our petty bickering," she said in defense before looking up at Jon so he could see her sorrowful blue eyes. "I've seen ugly, bitter, dysfunctional, unloving sibling relationships since I left Winterfell and it only served as a mirror for my relationship with Arya. Joffrey didn't seem to like his siblings much. He certainly didn't love them, so much as tolerated them because they were his to tolerate. Cersei despised her brother Tyrion to such a degree that I still cannot fathom considering he was kind for a Lannister."

"The Queen hated The Imp?"

"She hated everyone. But especially him." She seemed like she briefly felt sad for the Imp. But her mind quickly moved on." I saw a hatred so deep in Ser Sandor Clegane's eyes anytime his brother Gregor was brought up."

"Sandor?"

"The Hound," Sansa clarified. "He was Joffrey's dog, and Gregor, The Mountain was Tywin's dog, but the Mountain was so much worse. He mutilated his own brother by holding his face into the coals of a burning fire. Sandor was only six, no older than Rickon when I last saw him." She shook her head in disgust, causing Jon to truly reflect on what she was telling him. "During my stay in the Eyrie, I came to know that Mother and Aunt Lysa were not close, and in fact were divided by men. And then of course there was a war between two brothers, Stannis and Renly Baratheon. They fought over a crown and both died crown-less, when they could and should have worked together to unseat Joffrey. I've seen enough sibling hatred to put all of my bickering with Arya in perspective. We were little girls that wanted what we wanted, but sadly, could never want things that pleased us mutually. But I'm not a little girl anymore, and after all she has been through, I reckon she isn't either. When we see each other again, all I'll see is a sister I love dearly. We can always laugh about our old habit of annoying each other."

"So you do believe we'll find her?" he asked, proud of the words Sansa had given him, but still reluctant to believe that he would ever get his other sister back.

"After we take back Winterfell, we'll find her. Or she'll find us when the news has reached her. Arya's strong. I believe in her." Sansa lowered her head back to his chest and looked away towards a sleeping Ghost. "I know you probably miss her most."

"What makes you say that?" He tried to downplay the butterflies in his gut from her figuring him out.

"You and her always had a special bond, Jon. We all noticed it. You would be brooding somewhere in the corner and she would come over to make you laugh. Then you would mess with her hair and call her little sister. You never called me little sister. Just Sansa. Plus, even bringing her up now, I can see that you miss her and the way she could make you laugh like no one else."

"She was pretty funny," Jon smiled despite his sadness. He wanted to believe she was out there alive. But even if she was living, he shuddered to imagine what she was out there doing to survive. Was she someone's serving girl? Someone's bed wench? Or worse? "She refused to let me ever sulk. Always had to do something silly or shocking to get my attention or break any sullen mood I found myself in."

"Do you remember whenever she would get in one of our beds, pull the furs over our heads and then let out the nastiest fart?" Sansa frowned.

"Oh yes, how could I forget," Jon laughed as he remembered a time when Arya pretended she had a bad dream so she could trick him into letting her sleep in his bed. It was all a ploy so that he would let down his guard and she could yank the covers over their head for her gassy surprise. "She was forever farting, and making sure one of us heard and smelled it. At supper, at prayer, at archery, at feasts with Lords and Ladies present. Your mother would always grab her forehead in embarrassment and plead for Arya to apologize to anyone with the displeasure of being around. And the smell." Jon cracked up just thinking about it. "It was always so much fouler than anything Robb, Theon, or even my brothers in the Night's Watch could cook up."

"I hated her whenever she did that," Sansa whined. "I remember she made me and Jeyne hold our tongues and say 'apple', except when when said it out loud it sounded like arsehole, and then she farted. It was so rude and embarrassing! I would always complain to Father about her sleeping in my bed because she just wanted to torment me with her gas but he just thought it was so funny."

"It was," Jon laughed for a long time before his lips dimmed into a pleasant smile. "I miss that."

"Her farting?" Sansa jeered.

"Her indecency. That she was never too bashful. That she didn't take herself so seriously. She wasn't ever worried about being pretty or proper. She wasn't boring," he shrugged, knowing no other way to explain what made Arya, Arya. "She could fart with pride because why wouldn't she be proud of everything that she created?" _Even her disgusting farts._ "I miss that she wasn't a Lady. She was just her." He hoped that by praising Arya for being so different, he wasn't demeaning Sansa for being so typical. He couldn't see her eyes, so he wondered what Sansa was thinking about as she listened to him talk about how much he missed their sister. "Speaking of Lady, whatever happened to your wolf?"

"Father killed her," she responded softly.

"Father?" He didn't understand. "Why? Did Lady attack a Lord or someone of nobility?"

"Nymeria attacked Joffrey." She took a deep breath and sighed. "Honestly Jon, it's a long story. I share blame. Father had to kill Lady in place of Nymeria to appease Queen Cersei and King Robert - but _mostly Cersei._ I will tell you the entire story when I feel up for it."

"You tired?"

"It was a long trip," she said. "I haven't had a good nights rest in - I don't remember. I'm not terribly sleepy. But _I am very tired_."

"Understandable. You've fought so hard to get here. I can't imagine the hardships you have endured night after night. You've earned your rest," he encouraged. "Would you like me to escort you to the bedchamber with Lady Brienne?"

"Can't I just sleep here? I'm already comfortable. And I like using you as my pillow," she said with a little chuckle.

"Sure," he smiled.

They adjusted themselves in the bed and Sansa pulled the cover over her body, up to her shoulders, and snuggled close to him. He waited until she seemed to be sound asleep before he closed his eyes. But within moments she had called his name. He opened his eyes and saw her looking up at him, her eyes so blue, and wide, and eager to tell him something. "Yes?"

The noise that followed sounded like a fart. Like a wet, harsh, fart that had been held in for ages. But it couldn't have been that? It had to have been the bed making a queer noise on the old floors, or maybe it was Ghost, or maybe? Jon found himself under the darkness of the furs before he heard Sansa laughing, revealing the foul odor of the unbelievable truth. Distracted by the suddenness of everything, Jon accidentally sucked in a huge breath and nearly gagged.  "Gods, Sansa!"

He fought for a breath of fresh air, but Sansa held the covers tight over their heads. They wrestled under the covers, Jon fighting back tears, Sansa giggling. Only when he was finally able to fight free of the darkness and emerge from under the furs could he inhale. But along with fresh air, uncontrollable laughter filled his lungs. He held his eyes shut for what felt like minutes and laughed until his cheeks hurt. He hadn't laughed that hard from his belly since...since before he left for The Wall.

When he finally opened his eyes he saw her staring back at him with the proudest grin.

"Gods, that has to be the worst thing I have ever smelled. And I thought they called you Sweet Sansa. Rotten Sansa is more like it," he smirked, fanning his face.

"Rotten?" she sneered as if it hurt her feelings. "It's not that bad."

"Yes it is," he said, meaning it.

She gave a little sniff and frowned. "I guess a little rotten."

"It's definitely not lemon cakes and perfumes," Jon added. "I didn't even know a girl could smell like that."

"You said Arya's farts smelled worse than the Nights Watch."

"Well, I meant a girly girl," Jon said, trying to explain it. "A Lady. No way I thought a Lady could fart like that." For the longest, Jon wasn't even sure women could fart at all. Ygritte never did around him. Nor did Catelyn Stark, or Old Nan, or Jeyne, and especially not perfect little Sansa Stark, who always smelled of perfume, lemons, and sunshine. The girl that felt offended if you picked your nose around her, or didn't have enough manners to call a fart "wind" instead of, a fart.

"Why yes Jon, while you were north of The Wall proving giants and White Walkers were real, I am pleased I could find proof and confirm for you that us ladies south of the wall do fart," she shot him a crooked, sarcastic smile, her lovely accent making it all the funnier. "And I've been holding that one in since I got here. But what the hell. I'm not going to tear my stomach apart to maintain the image of what a Lady is supposed to be. I'm too tired to care anymore."

"So you're like Arya now? No cares for being a Lady?"

"No. I'm still a Lady. I still will conduct myself with the proper form and manners of a Lady, as it will serve us well as we play at politics to rally the North around us. But between me and you, Jon, I need you to see that a Lady is more than just a pretty face, and perfumed dresses. I have every bit the fight that a warrior has. You should just expand your definition of a Lady."

Perhaps for the first time, Jon truly saw Sansa. And maybe more than any of the Stark children, she was the embodiment of the Tully and Stark alliance. Sweet and fierce. A song of Winter Is Coming and Family, Duty, Honor.

"Goodnight Jon," she said with a smile before again getting cozy against his chest.

"Goodnight little sister."

 


	2. Sansa I

**Sansa I**

 

_To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow_

_You allowed thousands of Wildlings past the Wall._

_You have betrayed your own kind and you've betrayed the North._

_Winterfell is mine, bastard._

_Come and see._

_Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon._

_His Direwolf's skin is on my floor._

_Come and see._

_I want my bride back._

_Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your Wildling lovers._

_Keep her from me and I will ride North to slaughter every Wildling - man, woman, and babe - living under your protection._

_You will watch as I skin them living._

_You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister._

_You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother._

_Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest._

_Come and see._

_Ramsay Bolton,_

_Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North_

**

The letter itself didn't depress her, it was Jon's reaction. _He is afraid._

Whether he was afraid of Ramsay, or afraid of fighting, or afraid of the many threats of violence against his Wildling friends, she could not say, but she clearly saw the aura of fear surrounding him. It was depressing. She had come to the only person she knew that could help her but instead of finding a Lord Commander, chiseled into a fierce warrior by the demands of defending the Wall, or a legion of hardened brothers in black, she found fearful broken men. And her brother was their reluctant leader. The most fearful of them all.

_I thought they would be more. I thought he would be more.  
_

Vestiges of her naivety and idealism. She thought she was moving beyond being the stupid girl that believed men fought eagerly for honor but seeing Jon so reluctant proved to her that she still was still clinging to the heart of her Father's teachings. _The North Remembers._

She needed her Father to at least be right about that. She needed at least one of her youthful lessons to be true. She didn't even want to fight for a North that wouldn't remember.

She knew Jon could fight. She had seen him training in Winterfell's courtyards, hitting straw targets with bow and arrow, practicing his form with a lance, sparring against Robb and Theon with wooden swords. She even remembered overhearing Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's Master-at-arms, telling Father that Jon had again bested Robb in a duel, to the Young Wolf's frustration.

She remembered feeling sorry for Robb, the heir of Winterfell, who surely should have been a better fighter than his bastard brother. She also recalled Mother telling Father that he should spend more one-on-one time with Robb in his weapon training. Mother hated that Jon was more skilled than Robb, even though he was smaller, and baseborn.

Robb was the future of House Stark, the prize of Ned Stark, he should not have been humiliated in any aspect by a half-brother whose destiny was to remain in his shadow, Mother would say. And because Sansa so respected Mother's opinion, she found herself hating Jon's proficiency compared to Robb, too.

When Robb became King, Sansa heard the tales of his string of victories in battle. If he was capable of standing up to the greatest military forces the South had to offer, she imagined Jon should have been just as, if not more capable.

So it wasn't Jon's fighting that seemed to be in question, it was his heart that she found lacking. It beat, she felt it for herself, but did it no longer pump warm Stark blood but something colder and lifeless? Why wasn't he more hotblooded and angry? Where was his urgency in rebuilding The North and punishing their enemies? Why wasn't he more willing to crush the House that had betrayed The North and disgraced his family? Why was he running away? What was he so afraid of?

She wanted to press him with these questions, but instead made a request to tour the top of The Wall. It was one of the Wonders of the world, and according to Jon the only thing stopping the fabled White Walkers from invading The North. He seemed far more concerned with these dead things than the monsters living in her home, so she wanted to get a good look at the Ice Fortress supposedly holding The Realm together.

Jon seemed reluctant to allow her. "Are you sure? It's very high up there, 700 feet."

 _He is reluctant about everything,_ she angrily thought. "I jumped off Winterfell's walls. I can handle the height."

"It's bitterly cold up there." He gave Brienne of Tarth a stray glance before again focusing on his sister. "The winds are harsher, strong enough to carry a large man over. The air is frozen. Icy, thin, and hard to breathe. It's really no place-"

"For a Lady?" The bite of her interruption was as sharp as the morning wind. She narrowed her eyes at those sad, grey, reluctant windows to his broken soul. "Jon, do not patronize me. Take me."

'It's not my intention to patronize you-," Jon said defensively before pausing and deciding not to finish whatever thought he had. "Fine. I'll take you. But only after you bundle up."

He led her to a room inside the armory, where smelly old black cloaks, black gloves, black scarves, and black boots were kept. "Most of this hasn't been worn in some time," Jon said as he smacked the dirt and ice off the cloaks, searching for one most suitable for her to wear. Everything was black, at least on the outside, she saw some grey and white lining the inside a few of the garments.

The gloves, scarf, and cloak he settled on were dirty, and worn, and musky, but relatively dry. The cloak had strong threading, the gloves didn't have any holes, and the scarf even had a few diamond patterns sewn into it. She could tell Jon still felt ashamed to offer it to her as he handed them over in modesty. "You won't have to wear it for long."

Sansa took the clothing in her hands, and noted the weight of the material, just as heavy as the smell.  The clothes she had thrown together to escape Winterfell had been good enough to get her to the Wall, but after being in the freezing river and then dried next to the fire, the material had thinned out. Castle Black was perhaps the last place in Westeros to find clothes suitable for a woman, and these old rags were barely good enough for men, but she wasn't going to let that detour her efforts to cover herself in warm, appropriate clothing.

Trash could be treasure. One just needed to have eyes to spot potential and possess skills to extract value. "The boots and belts in this room have good leather." She walked to the cupboard of smelly garments and felt for their skins and innards. "Plenty of wool, fur, and linen in these cloaks and scarves as well. When we get back from atop The Wall, would you mind if I used these materials to sew socks, gloves, a cloak, and heavier dress for myself?"

He looked around the room as if surprised she had found anything useful about it beyond storage of weapons and clothes nobody were using. He smiled. "Whatever you need in here is yours."

After Sansa was dressed in black, she followed Jon outside of the building. Podrick and Brienne accompanied them to the winch elevator that would lift them 700 feet to the top of this giant mass of ice. It dawned on Sansa that this was also their first time seeing this wondrous miracle of engineering and magic that was erected by her ancestor, Bran the Builder, the founder of House Stark. She felt some sense of pride, being the direct descendant of the man that was responsible for the Wall that protected The Realm for centuries. His blood ran through her.

Maybe his wall couldn't save them now, but perhaps his offspring could. 

In the morning shadow of the castle, the actual ice of The Wall was greyer and duller than Sansa imagined it would be, but she could feel the dry cold reflecting off it's surface. Despite it's lack of beauty she still wanted to give the ice a kiss. Pressing her lips to cold things was one activity her and Arya actually enjoyed doing together.

She remembered Arya telling her that if she ever got to The Wall, she would kiss it for ten seconds. Sansa told her that her lips would immediately freeze. Arya countered by saying she would simply pour warm water to free her lips. Sansa responded by saying the water would only melt her lips into The Wall, since the ice was so cold. Arya told her she was wrong and being stupid. She remembered that debate ended in a snowball fight.

But the days of childhood fun and games were gone. Her last day as a child was the day she built a snow castle at The Eyrie. The day she hit Sweet Robin. The day she kissed Lord Baelish. The day she was nearly pushed through The Moon Door. The day she saw her Aunt Lysa killed. The day she lied to absolve Littlefinger of his crime, becoming complicit in the murder. She thought about that day often, retracing her steps, adding and subtracting actions that could have given her more power, given her an army, given her The North.

The night that Sansa married Ramsay, her husband told Theon that this was the moment Sansa became a woman. He was as wrong as he was vile. That day in the Eyrie was her transformative moment. Even if she sometimes felt inadequate for the role she stepped in that day she symbolically betrothed herself to Lord Baelish, she knew she couldn't ever go back. That little girl was dead.

She walked stiffly into the elevator and gathered her courage as the gate closed, and Jon signaled for his Night's Watch brothers to activate the pulley system to begin their ascent. The ancient elevator lazily awakened from it's slumber and struggled upwards like an elderly man too old and clumsy for climbing ladders. The sudden lift caused sprinkles of ice and dust to fall on her face, which she wiped away, though Jon, Brienne, and Podrick seemed not to notice the debris that fell on them.

When the elevator had gotten some height to it, two or three stories, Sansa began to feel the chill in her bones. She wasn't sure if the air had gotten any colder or if she was just realizing how high this thing was really going to take her. She felt as frozen as the ice itself, afraid to move an inch for fear of falling apart as the elevator rose higher, and higher, while her heart sank lower and lower.

She could feel the bread and porridge of her morning meal stewing in her gut, and bitter bile at the back of her throat. The unsteady upward movement made her dizzy. Only when she noticed white clouds blowing from every face but her own did she realize she had been holding her breath. She let out a long sigh which caught Brienne's attention.

"Are you alright M'lady?" her concerned Knight asked, which caused Jon and Pod to take closer looks of her as well.

"I'm fine," Sansa lied. She would look like an utter fool if she professed fear now. She couldn't afford to look like a stupid girl in front of them. The cutting out of tune whistle of the wind was horrifying, as was the clink of the rusty chain keeping them aloft, and the roar of wood that shook the elevator each time they passed a level and caused the damp wooded floor to creak.

Jon believed she had grown into a strong, courageous woman. That image would have been destroyed if she told him she was afraid and wanted to go back down, if she didn't keep reach the top like she had arrogantly demanded of him, if she didn't keep the posture of a woman that couldn't be rattled. She couldn't prove him right, that this was no place for her, not if she truly wanted to prove to him that she was worth rallying behind. "It's just taking quite a while to reach the top. Getting a bit bored."

She wondered if the crack in her voice betrayed her words.

"You don't find the view to be breathtaking?" Brienne asked. Her Knight was still trying to get to know her. It hadn't even been a fortnight since Brienne rescued her from Ramsay's dogs. She should have been telling Brienne the truth, since it was truly important for a Knight to intimately know and understand the person they were sworn to protect, but now wasn't the time.

"I'd find it easier to admire once we are out of this rickety thing," Sansa said. "It's so slow."

"Perhaps, but I reckon it's faster and safer than climbing," Brienne said with a rare smile. She turned towards Pod. "And how are you holding up, my noble squire?"

"You all are better than me," Pod said with a nervous smirk. "I'm shivering cold and just keep telling myself, _don't look down, don't look down_."

"You're afraid of heights?" Brienne asked.

"I never knew that I was until now."

"Don't worry, my friend." Jon gave Pod a pat on his back, causing him to flinch. "Not much longer."

Pod's fear helped in some way with settling Sansa's own stomach, as she managed to keep herself from vomiting for the remainder of the lift. They came to a stop and the metal and wood made a loud, stressful noise, a hallmark of the ride judging by Jon's nonchalant response. He unlocked and pushed the gate open, then signaled to them that it was safe for them to come forward. "Watch your step. It can be a bit slippery," Jon said while helping Sansa step out of the elevator and onto the surface of the wall.

Jon led them through a pathway, the uneven icy walls lined with torches struggling to stay aflame in the snowy wind. The corridor was narrow, allowing only two bodies to walk shoulder to shoulder, had primitive roofing, and offered several pathways that she imagined took them to different vantage points along the Castle Black section of The Wall, but Jon led them around a corner and up a small step until they were exposed to the full force of the snow, and winds.

Sansa spotted two men in black, one of them appearing to be on guard, while the other was shoveling snow to keep the pathway clear. Jon told the two men to take a break and get something in their bellies from the mess hall. They both answered "Yes Lord Commander," before Jon gave them a stern look and the one that had been shoveling corrected himself with "Yes, Jon."

"They still believe you to be their commander," Brienne said as she watched them turn the corner that led to the elevator.

"Honest mistake," Jon said with a half-shrug before looking out at the edge of the wall, where he must have been taking them. "Well there it is. The edge of the world." He stepped aside courteously and motioned for his guests to step forward. "Watch your step."

The three first-timers looked around at each other with uncertainty, and although Sansa knew she was more frightened than each one of them, her pride made her go first.

She took short, stiff steps as if she were walking on a frozen lake, her fingers clasped together because she had no idea what to do with her hands. There was a platform extended to the edge of The Wall, like a plank on a ship, and she briefly looked behind her, wondering if she was supposed to go that far out. Suddenly she remembered Jon's warning, that the winds were strong enough to carry a man over.

_What will a strong gust to do my frail body?_

She pushed past the lightness in her head, not wanting to turn back and look a fool in front of them, but when she peaked over the edge of the Wall and saw what the edge of the world looked like, the intensity of the wind picked up and she panicked and stumbled. She thought she was going to tumble over The Wall to her death, a fitting end to her pathetic life, but several strong arms kept her standing.

 _I can't breathe_ , she wanted to say, though she couldn't speak. Her legs were wobbly and her heart felt like it was going to explode in her chest.

"Sansa!" Brienne screamed as she pulled Sansa back from the edge. She could hear the distress in her voice. "You shouldn't be here. We're going back down."

Sansa nodded, gasping, sipping from the chilly air but not swallowing.

"No," Jon said as he stared at his sister. "Sansa, listen to me. I need you to _breathe_ ," he said in a firm and encouraging tone.  "You're holding your breath. _Breathe_ from your belly, sister. _Just breathe_. You can do this." He brought his hand to her stomach, pressing his hand into her stiff and stubborn tummy to induce breathing. "Just like that, from your belly. Breathe in." He sucked in a large breath, and she mirrored him, exhaling at the same time he did. "See, you're fine," he said as they took in another long breath. "In" they breathed in, "And out," he said as they watched their clouds of breath collide and merge before dissipating. They breathed like this for what felt like hours but couldn't have been longer than a minute, until she had found her footing and didn't feel so wobbly.

"I'm sorry," was the first thing Sansa thought to say.

"No worries," Jon said softly. "Many brothers have struggled to breathe upon seeing..." Jon took a glimpse over The Wall. "Seeing can take your breath away."

"Are you sure you are alright M'lady?" Brienne asked.

"I _think_ I am," Sansa answered, and this time she was honest with her Knight. She took another long breath before she found it in her to peak over the edge again. The view reminded her of when Aunt Lysa had threatened to throw her through the Moon Door. Though that castle was on top of a mountain and much taller than the tallest peak of The Wall, Sansa had never felt more chills running through her body than this moment, not even when she was half-submerged in the freezing river. "I'm a bit clumsy and stupid sometimes, but now that I've remembered how to breathe I think I can manage."

She said it with a smile, and after a few moments of silence, the four of them found laughter. Pod and Brienne took turns standing on the platform and looking out at the endless view of snow, mountain, and forest beyond The Wall. _Bran is out there somewhere or either dead_ , Sansa thought as Pod and Brienne moved away from the platform to join her and Jon where they sat in the snow.

She looked at Jon's scarred face and immediately thought of his battle with the White Walkers. She wondered how far away these monsters supposedly were. She knew Westeros fairly well but had never truly paid attention to geography beyond The Wall. "How far away is Hardhome from The Wall?" she asked her brother.

"A few hundred miles northeast of here," he answered, his mood suddenly sullen. _I've depressed him_. "My guess is The White Walkers and their army of the dead could be here within a fortnight, maybe more, maybe less. They don't seem to be in a hurry, though. They stalk, bide their time, but with every battle, every encounter with the living, they add to their numbers. Women, children, even horses, and dogs all get added to their numbers."

"Do you know how to stop them?" Brienne asked.

"We know that fire destroys the wights. In hindsight it may have been a better idea to build a wall of burning fire instead of big blocks of ice," Jon said as he rubbed his gloved hands together. "I don't think fire affects the White Walkers though. Obsidian can kill them. The Children of the Forest used to provide the brothers with dragon glass weapons all of the time. I lost a bag of them back at Hardhome. It's the only thing we know that can kill them. Well, and that," Jon said with a nod towards Brienne's sword Oathkeeper. "I killed one with Valerian steel. With one swing, it shattered into a million pieces of ice."

Sansa didn't want to be skeptical of her brothers claims, but it all sounded so fantastical and outrageous. She knew his stories would have had him laughed out of King's Landing. Northerners were more superstitious, susceptible to believe in the tales they were told.

Old Nan used to tell the Stark children tales for entertainment or to scare them into obedience, but Maester Luwin had always told Sansa that these stories were either half-true, or completely made up. She always trusted Maester Luwin more than old Nan, but here Jon was, telling them that the tales were true. She had no reason to believe he was lying, but perhaps he could have simply gone mad after what his brothers did to him? But what about the others that said the story was true?

She had already seen for herself that giants were real. She had also felt Jon's dagger wounds, which seemed to confirm that he truly had been murdered and brought back to life. If she could accept those unbelievable claims, on what basis could she deny the other tales? Tales that helped form the geography, identity, and politics of the North?

"Old Nan said The Wall had spells woven into the ice," Sansa said, recalling earlier lessons that she had once dismissed as silly stories to frighten her. "She said the magic prevents the dead from ever passing beyond The Wall. If true, then what reason do we have to fear, even if they have gathered an army of dead things?"

"I encountered a wight here at Castle Black. An evil, dead, cold corpse with the bluest, demonic eyes. It didn't feel pain when I sliced off it's arm or impaled it with my steel. It had one instinct, one thirst. Murder. It tried to strangle me, tried to strangle Lord Commander Mormont. I threw a burning torch to set it on fire and severely burned my own hand in the process. It appears the dead can be reanimated south of the Wall."

He looked at the faces of his skeptical audience before pulling up the sleeve of his cloak and removing his glove. More evidence for his claims, his arm was multi-colored, uneven, and puffy from the hand to the elbow. She wondered how she hadn't seen his badly scarred arm two nights before, when he was standing before her shirtless so she could examine his chest and stomach.

She must have been completely lost in the story of his murder to have noticed anything else. "It's an ugly scar, but Maester Aemon said I was lucky to retain the feeling in it. I can still wield a sword and fight," he said as he pulled his fingers into a fist to show his full range of movement. "Unfortunately." He seemed ashamed of his last word.

Looking at the damage done to his body made her feel strange - there was some sense of solidarity considering her own scars, but also an allure aesthetically. She remembered when Queen Margery had told her that Lord Tyrion was attractive especially _because_ of his facial scar. Sansa had found it difficult to overlook him being a dwarf and a Lannister, but there was one night where she saw him reading, half of his face hidden in darkness and the other half with warm candle light highlighting the gruesome yet appealing accent mark of his face. _I almost asked him to bed then._

There were also her memories of The Hound, when he saved her from being raped by the mob, when he appeared in her bedchamber and asked her to flee King's Landing with him. Her memories of his facial scars seemed to make him more attractive than he actually was. Sometimes she wished she would have fled that night. In hindsight, it was awfully romantic, being rescued during a battle in the middle of the night. It was always what she wanted. _I have missed so many opportunities._

She had always been drawn to the idea of handsome men with perfect smiles, beautiful hair, and charming personalities, someone like Loras Tyrell. But Margery had planted the seed in her mind that only continued growing the more she saw battle-torn men and now, looking at her scarred brother, she had to admit that she found men like him attractive..... _men like him_ , she made herself emphasize in thought. Not him specifically; as he was her brother. Loras Tyrell, and _men like him_ no longer made her feel much of anything.

But where she had grown up thinking that battle scars only made men more brave and strong, she was beginning to see that they actually could soften them, like meat being tenderized from the pounding of a kitchen hammer. _He's soft now._ She wondered what would it take to harden him again. Ramsay would make quick work of Jon if he remained reluctant, soft, and broken. She had no other choice. She had to be the one to inspire him.

"I've seen the horrors of war, traveling in the Riverlands searching for Lady Sansa and Lady Arya," Brienne said out loud as she looked up to the grey sky in thought. "I've seen men wait their turn so they can have a go at taking a helpless woman. I've seen a women sell her children for a loaf of stale bread. I've seen men lose their limbs, lose their manhood, lose their keeps, and their families, and their minds. I also saw the horrors of magic whenever Lady Catelyn and I witnessed a shadow murder King Renly. Through all of this horror, I've tried to maintain a healthy level of respect for the world, for man and woman. But maybe these dead things that you have seen, maybe they can no longer tolerate what we as people do to each other. The murder, the rape, the betrayals. Sometimes I wonder if we even deserve the rights to the lands we fight for."

"Are you saying you want the dead to win?" Jon asked, an incredulous bite to his voice.

"No. I'm not saying that at all," Brienne insisted. "I just don't know if we _deserve_ to win."

Jon looked at her without a response. Sansa couldn't tell if he was offended at her suggestion or if he begrudgingly agreed with her. He chose not to speak to his feeling, instead turning toward Podrick. "And what about you huh? You don't seem to have much to say. Still cold?"

"A bit," Podrick said as he rubbed his hands together, snowflakes smacking against his face. "But I think my chills are coming from the talk of dead demons coming to take over the land. I'm just trying to take it all in. It's very queer to me."

"You think I'm mad don't you?" Jon smiled.

"No, not at all. It's just," he paused, looking at the snow on the ground. "I didn't grew up on these stories. I didn't grow up on very many stories at all. In the Westerlands, I never really heard about White Walkers, Children of the Forest, or even gods, so I really wasn't predisposed to believe or disbelieve in it. I just never thought about it. I'm not sure I even believed The Wall existed." He looked up from the ground, taking a good look at where he was. "I was abandoned by my mother after my father was killed in the rebellion, so I guess I didn't pay too much attention to anything other than my duties as a squire. I wanted to prove myself useful"

"People in the Westerlands are really different compared to what I've seen of Northerners. What sparked our imagination was the next gold or silver rush, or exploring caves to find old bones, maps, and weapons. There might have been a few stories where I overheard people suggesting that there were ghosts in old abandoned mines, but it was never spoken about as if it was anything more than an amusing story. But you Northerners have so many rich stories that are queer, but probably true. And I'm just, sort of thankful."

"Thankful for what?" Sansa asked him. Pod had always been so quiet, she had never given true consideration for any opinions he had. Surely, a misstep in her evaluation of the people around her. Petyr would have been disappointed.

"Just a few years ago, I was sentenced to be executed for stealing a ham. But somehow, I found myself serving Lord Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King. Then I fought on the winning side at the Battle of the Blackwater." He gave Brienne a true look of admiration."Then I got the privilege of serving one of the best fighters in Westeros, who has brought some of the most evil men in The Realm to heel. She's the truest Knight I've ever known."

He gave a look to Sansa then. "Then we got to save one of the most beautiful and graceful Ladies in the Realm and now have the privilege to help restore her to her rightful place as Lady of Winterfell. I have a special place in my heart for you Lady Sansa, since you were Lord Tyrion's wife, and I know he cared for you. I heard him once say Sansa Stark was more clever than every other Stark, and we were watching the making of a player in the great game. He remarked that if House Stark survived, it would be off the strength of your efforts. So doing anything I can to help keep you safe has been rewarding beyond words."

He gave a final look to Jon. "And now I'm sitting on top of the world, talking to a man that killed a White Walker and lived to talk about it.  A man that will probably have songs written about him one day. You have to understand, a year ago, I didn't even know how to properly ride a horse, or skin a rabbit. Now I'm helping great Knights and great Lords and great Ladies. Proving myself useful to the best men and women in the world. I'm very thankful for it all."

"That is very kind of you to say Podrick," Sansa told him with a warm smile as she touched his gloved hand. She reflected on her former husband Tyrion and the words he had apparently said about her. Perhaps never consummating that marriage had been a mistake.

"Almost too kind," Jon said, clearly shying away from his potential greatness. "At least the bit about me. I very much doubt any flattering songs will be sung about me. I've failed at every meaningful task I've been given. Without the Red Woman, I'm just the man that betrayed the North and got killed for it."

 _He's afraid of failure,_ Sansa thought. His fear made her so angry. "Do you believe we'll fail at retaking Winterfell?" she barked more harshly than she intended. "Have you just accepted that we will fail to rescue our little brother?  The rightful King In The North?" He avoided her eyes. _He can't even look at me._ "Jon. Are you just going to let Ramsay win? Do I need to remind you of what he said he'll do to us? He wants to flay your friends, he wants to make you watch his men rape-"

"I know what the fucking letter said!" he exploded. "I read it. I've been reading the damn thing in my thoughts all morning. But what do you expect me to do about it? I'm one man." She had never heard Jon so angry. It left her and everyone else speechless for several awkward moments.  He breathed harshly. "I'm sorry for yelling at you."

She didn't want him to apologize. She needed him to be angry. But she also didn't want Pod and Brienne to see him this broken. And she certainly didn't want Pod to hear what she needed to tell her brother.

She looked toward them both. "I'm sorry Brienne, Pod, but would it be possible for you to give me and my brother some privacy?" Brienne looked as if she didn't want to leave her. Maybe she was concerned about Jon's sudden outburst? But Sansa knew Jon would never hurt her. But her sworn sword clearly didn't want to take any chances, even with her brother.

She decided to give Brienne a task to do, something to let her know she would be down soon enough. "I'm terribly cold so I couldn't even stay up here much longer. So as soon as we are done, it would please me greatly to have a nice, not bath."

Brienne eyed her for a moment, then threw a hard look at Jon before she exhaled slowly."As you wish M'lady." Brienne stood up and helped bring Podrick to his feet. "I'll boil some water and fill it into a tub so that the water will be warm when you and your brother are finished. I just ask that you do not stay up here too long much longer."

"As you wish," Sansa told her. "I'll see you soon."

Even after Brienne and Podrick had disappeared into the corridor, and the clinks and roar of the elevator filled the air, Jon still continued avoiding her eye contact, looking silently at the edge of the world. She pushed herself up, needing to get her blood pumping. She could feel her legs going numb from sitting in the snow. He continued looking away. _He's afraid to face me._

He had so many fears, fears she was convinced didn't exist in him until after he was murdered. Maybe this was the cost of his resurrection. He came back less. He came back wrong.

"I know you have been through a lot, Jon. You've been betrayed, murdered. I can't begin to imagine how that must feel. But I need you to imagine how I feel right now." Jon needed to hear what it was like for her. She couldn't keep it vague. He had to know the details, or else he would hide behind his ignorance. If her experiences were vague enough, he could fill in the details with images that weren't as bad as what really happened. But if she told him the entire horrifying truth, how else could he sleep with himself, live with himself, knowing what happened but doing nothing about it?

"They gave me a beautiful white dress. More beautiful than I ever imagined my wedding dress would be. I faintly even remember what I wore to my ceremony when I wed Lord Tyrion. That day is a blur. A dream I slept through. But the night I married Ramsay, I will never forget a detail. I remember the soft snow falling on my face as we met in the godswood. I remember thinking it was strangely beautiful, the stars above, the soft crunch of the snow as I walked, sly grin on Ramsay's face. I remember the sullen faces of the observers. Northerners that were once sworn to House Stark, watching as Ned's little girl married a Bolton bastard."

She took a step toward the edge of the wall, thinking about how Ramsay took a step forward to claim his bride during their ceremony. She shut her eyes tight and fought off the hot pool of wetness forming, remembering her own steps, her own words _I take this man._ She wiped her eyes in anger, refusing to let the tears freeze on her face. She waited until she could be sure her voice would not crack before she spoke again. "Ramsay brought me to our bedchamber. I was resolved to do my duty. To get it over with. But Ramsay relishes torment. He needs it like me and you need water. He made Theon watch as he tore my dress to shreds."

"Theon should have done something," Jon snapped.

"No, Jon," she said, turning her head so she could see him. He was finally looking at her. "This isn't about Theon, or Littlefinger, or Roose Bolton. This is about Ramsay. He is the enemy. He is the only person, the only place you need to direct your anger."

"Theon was like a brother to us. He should have-"

"Shut up and listen," she interrupted, still trying to get her brother to pay attention to what was important. "Ramsay enjoys humiliating people, taking pieces of them that they can never have back. That is what he did to Theon. He took his identity. Gave him a new name, a new body. I've made peace with Theon and his inability to help me that night. Don't focus on what Theon failed to do, focus on what Ramsay actually did."

"He raped you," Jon blurted out in agony. "I'm not an idiot. You don't have to recount this."

"Yes I do!" Sansa yelled, suddenly realizing that she needed to tell him as much as he needed to hear it told. She had contemplated telling Brienne exactly what happened with Ramsay but decided not to. She liked Brienne, but Brienne was a loyal sword. She needed assignments, not details of a rape. It wasn't important to Sansa for Brienne to know. But it was important to her that Jon knew.

"Ramsay didn't just rape me in front of the man that gave me away at my wedding. He..." she had to turn away for a moment as she contemplated how to tell him, _if she should_ tell him. But she quickly moved past her second thoughts. _Jon needs this. And I do too._ She looked directly into his wide, grey eyes. "He took me indecently. Bent me over the bed, spread me open, and stuck himself in the filthiest part of me, violating me, the gods, the sanctity of marriage, the-"

"Sansa, please."

"I endured this for weeks," she threw at him. "The least you can do is endure it with me for five minutes." Jon again turned away from her. It only served to make her angrier, though she was trying to direct her rage to Ramsay and not her heartbroken brother. "He's observant, Jon. He knows what his victims value most, and he plots to take it from them in the most painful way possible."

Jon looked as if he wanted to talk her out of revealing these painful details but she continued before he could. "He gave me a painful wedding night but still plotted to make that night last longer, so he kept my maidenhead in tact. The next morning he brought me breakfast, hamsteak, boiled eggs, and apricots. I wasn't hungry but he made me eat. Made me lie when he asked if I wanted to bear his children. I had been trained to say what I thought men wanted to hear so when I told him yes, he slapped the food out of my hands and hit me in my belly so hard that I vomited hamsteak, eggs, and apricots. He said he didn't like liars. He hated liars. And he wouldn't tolerate a lying bitch for a wife. Then he told me to finish my breakfast."

Seeing the range of emotions on Jon's face was too much for her to take, so she turned away from him and again focused on the view from 700 feet above the world. Strangely beautiful. "He made a deal with me. Told me that he would refrain from taking my maidenhead as long as I provided him with a song every day."

The laugh that jumped from her throat was ugly and bitter."He somehow knew that I loved songs. Maybe he heard it from Littlefinger, I don't know. But he found a way to make me hate songs. He would give me a topic, or idea, or concept every morning and when he came to my bedchamber that evening, he expected me to have a song ready to sing and dance like an idiot. And if my performance pleased him, then he wouldn't force me into my wifely duties."

The wind suddenly threatened to push her but Sansa kept her composure. Strong and unflinching, what she thought herself to be despite the moment of weakness she was relaying. "He told me if he caught any hint of a disingenuous song, any disguised Bolton insults, then he would make Theon warm me up with his mouth before he took ownership of every hole of my body. I believed him. So I sang. Performed for him and his girlfriend Myranda, and some Bolton soldiers and other Northern Lords at supper. I didn't really understand the method to his madness until I found myself singing to the glory of House Bolton in front of dozens of former Stark sympathizers."

Talking about the sodomy was difficult, but this revelation was the most embarrassing. "I was so stupid. Since he never harmed my face, I gave off the appearance of being treated well, especially when I was singing songs about my loving husband. He could point to me and say _see Northern Lords, Lady Sansa is so happy to be married to me, she can't help but write songs about it._ "

She needed Jon to see how easily Ramsay tied sadistic torture into his political tactics. He had succusfully captured Moat Caitlin and shed his bastard name by playing such games. And Sansa had fallen right into the trap. "I made a fool of myself. But at least it gave me something to hold on to. Every song I sang meant I could keep my maidenhead one night longer, keep myself from bearing a Bolton child one night longer. I figured if I held out long enough, someone would come to save me before he had taken everything from me."

"He didn't try to get you with child?"

"This is what you don't understand about him, Jon. He is cruel to his core, so even if he is clever, he cares more about playing his games than anything else. Any other man in his position would have stuck a child in me as soon as possible to secure his claim, but he was content to humiliate me." _And physically hurt me,_ though she didn't want to concentrate on the physical scars just yet.

"I couldn't even go to the privy without his supervision. But every song I sang about his valor in battle, or his charming good looks, or his infectious personality, or the great House Bolton was another night that he left my maidenhead alone." She thought to tell him about the pieces of her body that had been torn from her but decided she could not give him every horror all at once.

"The first song I sang for him was called 'No More.' He wanted a song about the North being rid of the Starks. I cried for hours before I could think of a single word to write about that topic. But when I saw the sun beginning to dip in the sky I forced myself to come up with a melody, and the words followed. I hated myself for it but what kept me alive was _hating him even more_. I decided that I would rather demean the Stark name for a time than give him any children that would inherit Winterfell forever. I was willing to give him the day so I could have the morrow."

Her voice felt heavy and dead but Jon had to hear.

_The North was once ruled by Starks_

_Wolves with homely names_

_Brandon, Benjen, Bran again_

_They all sounded the same_

_Eddard Stark_

_Ol Honorable Ned_

_With a greatsword named Ice_

_A lousy Warden of the North_

_With bark but little bite_

_He went to war for his sister whore_

_Ol Honorable Ned_

_Betrayed his wife, betrayed a King_

A _nd Ice took his head_

_The Young Wolf rebelled_

_With eyes grey as wind_

_Betrayed his honor, like Ol Ned_

_And justice paid his sins_

_Bran and Rickon burned alive_

_Like their Grandfather before_

_No more Wolves to betray the North_

_The House is no more_

_The House is no more_

_The House is no more_

There was a cringe in Jon's face for the duration of the song, like a permanent stain that couldn't be washed away. Still, he listened, and didn't tell her to stop, which she appreciated. He was proving he was willing to endure the pain with her.

"He told me it was a decent first song, but he felt in his loins that I could do better. It was a thinly veiled threat that persuaded me to try even harder," Sansa recalled. Her songwriting did improve, as did her singing and performances, and after weeks of pleasing Ramsay with humiliating songs, stalling, holding on for just another day, she found the right moment to escape from Winterfell without giving him the satisfaction of being inside of her womanhood. A victory she felt ashamed of having secured, and didn't feel comfortable telling anyone, not even Jon.

_Who would believe me?_

Married off twice, and neither man consummated the marriage? She imagined men and women alike would sooner believe Jon killed a white walker before they would believe Sansa Stark still had her purity. _Though on what basis can I call myself pure, when he has violated every other part of me?_ She could call herself a virgin, but she didn't feel like one. She knew the taste of seed, the pain of a naked body invading her, and the stink of shame that came afterwards. _I'm more whore than maid._ She refused to let Jon know of her conflicted state. 

The sad irony is after all she did to protect her maidenhead, it broke shortly after she escaped Winterfell, some time after jumping off the Wall and riding the horse to Castle Black. She remembered going behind a tree to make water and finding blood in the crotch of her small-clothes, and it wasn't her red flower. So now if she were to be examined by a septa or septon, they would find her body as used as her name was.

Sansa had walked to the edge of The Wall by the time she finished singing the song and reflecting on all she had done to keep Ramsay's child out of her. The height wasn't what scared her now.  "Part of me wished that I would have died when I jumped off Winterfell's walls," Sansa said so softly, she wasn't even sure Jon could hear her. Her confession was not just for Jon, in fact, admitting these things out loud were perhaps more for her own conscious than his. "I prayed to every god there was and none of them answered my prayers. I remember feeling so bitter about everyone around me, about the entire North. When my Aunt Lyanna was kidnapped and raped, they started a war for her."

She walked even closer to the edge until the tip of her boots pushed past the edge of the plank, causing snow, and dust, and ice to crumble down The Wall. She could hear Jon behind her now. "I used to think, _what made Aunt Lyanna so special_? _Why was everyone willing to die for her, but not me? What's so wrong with me?_ "

"The North fought to get you and Arya back too, Sansa." She heard the sound of boots behind her. "Robb died trying to get his sisters back. Your mother did everything she could to get her daughters back. Father too."

"I'm not talking about when I was in King's Landing. I was a hostage there, but I wasn't being raped," Sansa said. _Humiliated and tortured, yes_ , but nowhere near what she endured in her own home at the hands of a Northerner. "There were reasons why they couldn't get me when I was stuck in King's Landing. But I was raped in the North. I was raped _in my home, Jon."_

"I kept thinking, where are the Umbers? Where are the Karstarks? The Manderlys? They watched me grow from a babe. Where are they? Where is my brother Jon?" That last bit made her heart sink, as she realized she was holding a grudge toward him for not coming for her.

She couldn't help but feel if it was Arya being married to a Bolton, Jon would have been there fighting for her with an army as his back. "I guess there were acceptable reasons for why they didn't come, and reasonable justifications why you couldn't leave your post. But you tend to lose sight of the nuances and logistics of why your friends and family aren't rescuing you from being tortured every night."

"I'm sorry, Sansa. I truly am. I should have broken my oaths long before I did. I hate myself for following a stupid principle of honor while letting our enemies hurt our family, and especially letting them _hurt you_."

"You're honorable like Father - I can't begrudge you for that." But Father was dead, along with all of the other stupid honorable men. She didn't need an honorable ally, she needed a clever one. Could Jon ever be clever? "The North Remembers. That's all I had. It's all I still have, even now." She looked over the edge and imagined herself falling, like her Aunt Lysa had fallen. There was something graceful about falling to your death. Leaping off the edge of the world would have been poetic, considering she had leaped just to get to this moment. "I survived the jump from Winterfell's walls. I wouldn't survive this."

"Sansa," Jon said with urgency in his voice. "You're scaring me. Come back from the ledge." All it would take is one tiny step forward and the pain would cease to exist. "Sansa, please." She thought about it. Contemplated the jump. But she knew deep down she couldn't go through with it. She took a step back from the edge and turned to Jon, who looked more defeated than inspired. He embraced her with a hug, telling her that he was sorry, so sorry, so, so, so sorry. 

She wasn't seriously considering suicide, she just enjoyed the power. She wasn't used to having choices regarding her body, her life. And perhaps she also found some strange enjoyment in Jon being afraid for her. She clung close to her brothers body, warmed by his breath but comforted by her own will. She still had so much fight left, despite her humiliation, despite her scars, despite Ramsay's attempts to break her.

She _needed_ Ramsay to pay. She desperately hoped that Jon _needed_ it too.


	3. Jon II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is perhaps the darkest chapter of the story. Ramsay truly is his own warning.

 

 ** Jon II **

 

Jon considered the fates of the last men that had worn the cloaks, the scarves, the boots and gloves that he was throwing inside the bag. He wondered how they had died, how they spent their last moments. Did they die defending the wall from Wildlings, or a training accident, or of old age? 

_What does it matter?_

They were gone now. All that remained of them were the foul odors they left behind on their old garments and footwear. And only a fraction of what was left was acceptable for his sister. When he finished rummaging through the dead crows remains he closed the bag and set off for the bedchamber where Sansa was staying, close to his own, and a few buildings away from the rest of the black brothers.

He remembered the lengths Sam had gone through to keep Gilly and the babe safe, which meant keeping them away from the Night's Watch, hiding her in various rooms hoping she didn't draw too much attention. But it was impossible for a woman to not draw attention in a place like this. Jon often thought the constant stress of protecting Gilly was a burden to his friend, but in hindsight, he recognized that he had never seen Sam so determined and strong.

Somehow, protecting Sansa didn't make Jon feel determined and strong. Just paranoid and inadequate.

He had to worry about the White Walkers from the north, and the Umbers and Boltons from the south, and even his own sworn brothers from within his home. They weren't many of them left, about forty, but the dwindling numbers only added to his paranoia. Could he be sure those that wanted him dead were all gone? Could he be certain that the lonely men that remained wouldn't abandon any last shred of honor they had left to seek the warmth of his sister, surely the most beautiful woman many of them had seen in years, if not their entire downtrodden lives?

He couldn't even fully trust the free folk, who made courtship out of kidnapping and raping northern women for centuries.

He kicked up snow as he marched forward, trying not to think about the things Sansa had told him that morning. So much abuse. So much torture. So much that she had already gone through, yet so much more threatened to find them in the coming days and weeks.

Brienne stood outside the bedchamber, her hand on her sword, her eyes alert, her stance defensive. _If anyone is going to protect Sansa, it will be Lady Brienne, not me,_ Jon thought as he approached her with the bag of items his sister had requested. "Your sister is soaking in a bath," she said as her hand slid away from the hilt of her sword so she could take the bag from him. She seemed surprised that she needed both hands to hold it. "Did you bring the entire armory?"

"I didn't know how much material she would actually need," he said with a half-smile. "I found a few needles, some pins, thread, dye, laces from old trousers, a few scraps of silk, satin, a shear," he paused to think. "I also threw in a quilt and rug I found with gold, garnet, and silver coloring. I couldn't find a thimble, or a spinning wheel. I never sought to find out where we kept our clothes repair items when our maester was living. None of my brothers seem to know either."

"This should do just fine. I'm sure your sister will appreciate your efforts." The friendly look of her face quickly faded as she opened her mouth, though words didn't immediately fall out. She set the bag down and leaned in closer to him, so close that her voice promised to be a whisper. "Would you happen to have any ointments, or herbs that aid in healing scars?"

"Aye, we do," he told her in a hushed tone that matched her own. "Though I'm not well versed in healing, I know where we keep the lotions, wine for boiling, and herbs that help with disinfecting and cleaning wounds." He gave her a hard look and thought of the fight with Bolton soldiers that Sansa had told him about. Brienne was knocked hard off her horse and kicked in the face with the full force of a boot. "I can give you some milk of the poppy or dreamwine to help with the pain."

"No, not for me," she said louder than she must have intended considering she paused and leaned in even closer for her next words. "Lady Sansa. After I filled the tub with boiling water and soap, I tried to help her disrobe but she insisted that I turn away. I thought that she was just a little shy about disrobing but out of the corner of my eyes I saw..." She gave Jon a long look that communicated the horror that she saw. "The scars on her skin.." she struggled to come up with the words to describe what troubled her. "M'lady is so beautiful otherwise. The poor thing must be terribly embarrassed about how her body looks."

"I'll fetch something for her scars," he said softly, reflecting on the things she had told him that morning. He didn't know what Ramsay Bolton looked like, which only made his imagination work harder in creating an image to find disgusting. He tried not to let his horror reflect in his voice. "Tell my sister I'll be back by midday."

They gave each other nods before she carried the bag into the bedchamber. Jon was halfway across the yard when heard Brienne calling for him. He turned around in haste.

"Lady Sansa wishes to speak with you," she yelled from the top of the stairs.

"Now?" he asked, confused. "While she bathes?"

"Now."

He stood there for a moment. If Brienne's words weren't clear and final, the impatience on her face was. He quickly moved back up the steps.

Brienne stood by the door waiting, a look on her face that Jon couldn't quite read, though it faintly read like she thought his invitation into the cozy warm room was amiss, while she waited outside in the snowy cold. He took a slow and light step past her and before he could speak the door closed behind him. He remained at the door looking ahead at the empty steamy tub next to the fireplace. He looked to the bed, which was neatly made, and then to the empty rocking chair that was swaying slightly back and forth.

"Sansa," he called into the empty room that gave him no response. He took a closer look at the tub and only then did he spot her head emerging from underneath the surface of the water, her wet and stringy red hair sticking to her face, blocking her eyes.

She used both hands to move her hair behind her ears before dipping back down until the water rest above her chin, just under her lower lip, her shoulders completely submerged. "Are you just going to stand there?" she asked before sniffling. "Sit. Talk with me."

He moved inside of the room though he didn't know where she wanted him to go. He chose the bed. Close enough for them to have a conversation but far away enough so he couldn't see inside of the tub, at least from the way she was sitting in the water.

He took a seat at the edge of the bed and let his gloved hands rest stiffly on his lap, not knowing what else to do with them. She looked at him without much expression. He looked away at the bag sitting at the head of the bed. "I found a little silk, satin, and dye," he said as he turned his head back to her. "And a quilt and rug with color other than black."

"Yes. Brienne told me," Sansa said with a small smirk. "I already have a few ideas for how I can use the material. Though it may take some time."

"Well we have some time before we would have to move out," Jon said. "Time that will be spent strategizing. We have a lot to do if we're going to attempt a siege or battle with the Boltons."

"Sending out ravens to the houses we want support from, awaiting a response, planning routes, gathering food, drink, equipment, weapons for a potential army. Yes, I've been thinking about it all morning," Sansa said as water washed against her face. "I'll be thinking about it further when I get to knitting. I always think more clearly when I'm working on something. I've had some of my best ideas while doing my needlework." Her fingers emerged from the water and wiped at her nose. "Some of my worst ideas too but I digress. Positive thoughts, Sansa."

"It looks like you're cooking in there," Jon said, noticing the steam floating from the tub. It reminded him of when he saw a live lobster from White Harbor dropped into a boiling pot in preparation for one of the feasts he attended as a youth. "I can feel the heat all the way from here."

"I didn't wait long for the boil to cool," she smiled. "My skin will probably be tender and pink for the rest of the day but it _feels so good_." The sigh out of her mouth sounded like a mix of ecstasy and pain, but mostly the former. "After the chill I received this morning, a hot bath and a hot bowl of broth is a rejuvenation of my soul that I do not take for granted. Brienne and Podrick had to carry this heavy tub up the stairs and into my bedchamber. I wish I had something I could repay them with for all they have done for me. They may be sworn to me but I feel forever in their debt." She gave Jon a warm, kind look. "You as well. Thank you, Jon."

"You don't have to thank me for anything." He felt completely unworthy of the warm looks and words, especially after what Brienne and Podrick had done for her. _I haven't done anything but disappoint you,_ he wanted to say.

"Yes I do," she responded firmly. "I used to think I was owed service. I was supposed to be a queen. But I've had my cries go unheard for long enough, my pleas for help yield no results too many times for me to ignore sacrifice. And the least I can do is thank the ones that lent a helping hand, whether they have sworn oaths, whether they are family, or have any other duty to me. Not everyone is a slave to their duty."

He still didn't feel worth the trouble of a thank you but he smiled anyway.

He watched as she leaned her head back against the tub and closed her eyes. She looked so pretty like this, her hair wet and sticky, droplets of water and bubbles dripping across her forehead, over her eyelids, down the bridge of her nose. She could have been asleep if not for the words that came forth. "When is the last time you had a good, hot bath?"

He thought. But his memories were muddled, filled with pictures of daggers, and cold, and demons, and death. He reached in his mind for a single memory of a good, hot bath and nearly came up empty - that day in the cave with Ygritte was all he had. But that was less a bath and more nonstop lovemaking. "I can't remember," he lied, the memory of Ygritte a hurtful reminder of all of his failures. "I've been too busy for baths."

"Never too busy for a bath Jon." Her eyes opened alongside her disagreement. "I remember even during Fathers busiest days, with all of the responsibilities that came from being Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell, and a father to five...six children, he found the time to sit in a scalding tub and let his worries drip away."

"Your mother enjoyed those hot baths," Jon disputed her memory. "Father told me and Robb once that it was your Mother that would lead him to the baths. Father would have much rather aired his worries to dry in the cold of the godswood." Jon gave pause to solidify his memory with Ned Stark's words. "Those Tully's need the warmth, he told me."

"Well," Sansa uttered, stumped. "Okay how about this. Promise me that you'll have a hot bath tonight. It's easy enough for you, I saw the tub in your bedchamber. You don't have much of an excuse."

"Why do you want me to bathe so badly?" he asked, finally moving his hands away from his lap. He sniffed under his arms. "Does my odor offend you?"

"The cold drowns most of the smell of Castle Black, for that I am thankful. You stink but I'm not petty enough to request a bath for your scent." She took the edges of her hair and twisted, wringing it of water. "I can see that you are overwhelmed with burden. No doubt my presence has only added to your stress. After what has been done to you, and knowing the battles to come, I think something as simple as a bath would be a nice reprieve."

"A bath has never made me feel more prepared for a battle," he said, not addressing the comment she made about his added stress, for it was true, and the truth of it shamed him.

"But promise you will take one anyway."

"I promise." He would have to clean the tub first, as it was stained with the grit of battle. "Are you going to start on your needlework after you are done soaking?"

"Yes. I'll go through what you brought me and sort the fabrics, give myself an idea of what I have to work with."

"You sound eager," Jon said.

"I'm excited," she said with a cheery smile that warmed him more than any bath could. She held her wet, pink fingers in front of her face. "On my way here, I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to knit well anymore because my fingers had gotten so cold and numb." She opened and closed her fingers several times, popping her joints as she went. "We'll see how they do when I get going. I used to be able to knit all day, no problem, even as the other ladies complained of their wrists and fingers aching."

"I used to wonder how you could do that all day," Jon said, reflecting back. "It looks so tedious. _So boring_. But I'd see you at it from morning till evening. It made me wonder if you just liked clothes that much or if there was something else about it that I was missing."

Her eyes drifted away from him, towards the door, where no doubt Brienne was standing at attention. "It was my role, Jon. We don't get so many opportunities to express ourselves. As soon as we are able to hold a needle without poking our eyes out, they stick us in a room and tell us to knit. We learn crocheting before we're even able to pronounce it correctly. We didn't get to train with weapons or learn how to play at politics. Robb wasn't that much older than me, but our roles, what was expected of us was so different.”

Jon had never thought that Sansa could have ever been discontent with her role as a Lady. She always seemed so determined in her training. “So you didn't truly enjoy your grooming to be a Lady?”

“I did, Jon,” she said in frustration. “What I'm trying to tell you is that I didn't have a choice in the matter. It's either embrace the womanly arts or hate yourself for being a woman. I embraced the one choice I was given.”

She looked at him, her soft blue eyes glistening, reflecting the hard orange of the fire. “I learned the songs, and history, and took my arts and etiquette lessons seriously, both because I enjoyed it, and because I wanted to be good at history, arts, and etiquette. If I'm going to be a Lady, why not be the _most graceful_ , the _most beautiful_? I imagine it's the same way with you, or Robb, or Theon. Didn't you enjoy the competition of being the best with a sword, or the best with an arrow? The admiration and glory that came with winning?"

Jon had reached for the bag on the bed while she talked and taken out the needle and thread.

"I liked winning," Jon admitted as he spun the needle between his fingers. "I liked when Ser Rodrik told me well done. When he recognized that I was just as good as Robb. It made me feel more Stark than Snow."

Sansa must have felt Jon's shame, so she took the focus of guilt back. "I liked when septa Mordane smiled and complimented my embroidery and the details of my stitching, and the creativity of my designs. I liked the envious looks I got from the other girls who always failed to match my work. I liked being better than Jeyne, and Sarah, and Arya.” She scratched her chin, thinking deeply about her sister. “Arya hated her needlework. Truly despised every second of it. As petty as it may be, I found some enjoyment in that as well."

 “There are no ladies to compete with here. No septas to impress. But you're still so eager and excited to spend your days knitting and sewing.” He wanted to know what drove her to be the woman she was. He yearned to understand his Fathers princess. “Is it about passing the time or practicing the arts you thought lost to you, or simply because you want warmer, prettier garments?”

“It's all of that and more. I know you probably see vanity in my desire for prettier, perfumed garments, but I'm looking at the bigger picture. We are still a part of the royal family. Between my brothers, whichever still living, there is a King out there whose name is Stark. And going around begging for support in smelly, black rags does not inspire devotion. Looking defeated and smelling like chamber pots does not sing to the soul. I need the North to see Sansa Stark looking like the Sansa Stark they knew, or have heard about. Perhaps that will help them remember.”

Jon stared down at the needle he had brought for Sansa. Sadness and longing clung tight to his broken heart. "The last time I saw Arya, I gave her a needle."

"Yes her sword, I know," Sansa said with some resentment. "She wouldn't shut up about it. _Jon gave me this sword, Jon had it made juuuuust for me. I named it Needle. Did Jon give you a parting gift? No, well it's probably because you're mean and he doesn't like you,"_ she said, rolling her eyes at the impersonation. "I thought it was insane that Father let her keep it and even arranged for her to have a private dancing teacher. _A girl_ , in the capital, playing with swords. Mother would have never allowed it. Father had a doll made for me. _A doll_ , as if I was still Rickon's age."

"I would have gotten you something but I wouldn't have known what to get you. I never really understood you."

"You knew I liked the arts - songs, dance. I also liked clothing, and sweets."

"So I was supposed to write you a song and dance?" he chuckled. "Or knit you a gown, or bake you lemoncakes? You would have hated it."

"I would not," she disputed with a laugh. Jon gave her a skeptical look and she rethought her words. "On second thought, watching you sing and dance for me, playing the harp or seeing you in the kitchen squeezing lemons, stirring sugar, flour, and honey, or even better seeing you with a thimble on your finger, stitching together a pair of pink socks, that would have been glorious Jon. The best parting gift." She cracked up laughing, sweeping Jon along with her. "How adorable would that have been? Ah, how I wish I could have gotten to see that." She was snorting water now.

"See?" Jon grinned, making a gesture with his hands. "You would have laughed at me. Just like you are doing now."

"I'm sorry," she said, her laughs turning into little giggles. "I was mean, wasn't I?"

"You still are," he smiled.

"I remember feeling sore that you didn't think to give me a gift." She wasn't laughing anymore, just that quickly she had dipped her head back, her eyes looking even more remorseful than before. "I guess I earned that. Most of my misfortune has been earned."

"There's nothing you could have done to deserve what has happened to you." He wanted to say more, but he was no singer, no poet, he had trouble coming up with the right words to convey what he felt. The silence brought his eyes back down to the needle in his hand. He examined it, long and skinny, just like the sword Jon had given to Arya. "When I gave Arya her sword, I thought I was giving her something she needed. I didn't think you had a need in the world."

He tried to remember Sansa at that time. She was Robb's counterpart. "You were beautiful, engaged to a prince, with friends and admirers.  And you were finally getting your wish to leave Winterfell to see the gardens of the capital, and the great tournaments, and the famous knights." He poked his gloved pointing finger with the needle, slowly pushing it through the fabric until the point touched his skin. "I thought you were destined for a happily ever after - I worried that Arya would be utterly unhappy, being in your shadow. I gave her the sword, she named it Needle, and told me that you could keep your needle. I remembered thinking that her needle was greater in every way than the one you used every day with the other highborn girls."

He poked his finger but didn't flinch from the pain, even though he knew he had drawn blood. He looked up toward his sister, just her head sticking out of the tub of water, her full attention on him. "I never truly considered until now, the power of your needle. That your needle is what keeps a Kingdom warm through winter, that your needle is what gives life to the threads that sing to the glory of your name. Your needle knits together the fabric of the civilized world."

"And Arya's needle is what protects the civilized world," Sansa said after a few moments of considering his thoughts. Her red hair fell over her eyes and she moved the long, damp strands behind her ear. "You don't know how much that means to me. That you consider my talents important."

"Essential," he said with a soft smile.

Sansa Stark had been given compliments about her beauty and talents her entire life, but for once, it looked like she didn't know how to accept it gracefully. Her entire face had flushed a deep red, and she kept messing with her hair, as if suddenly aware of her nakedness, and that she was having a moment with her half-brother.

Eventually she flicked more bath water toward Jon, her way of breaking up the tension. Jon's grin faded the moment he saw her bare arms. The scars that Brienne mentioned were visible, and more hideous than Jon wanted to imagine. Bubble up lines, blood red and flesh pink, as long as string, some shaded with scabs, others dotted with boils filled with pus, ran from her shoulders to her forearm. And there were dozens of them, stitched to her skin like sigils, with bruises that ranged from a faint blue to a blackish purple.

She must have noted the change in his face because she quickly snatched her arms back under the cover of water, turning her head away from him towards the hiss and crack of blistering wood. _She's hiding from me._ What had been a moment of reflection and bonding had quickly turned into a moment of awkward silence where neither sibling dared to move or speak or even _look at each other_. If Sansa was too embarrassed for another woman like Brienne to see her scars, than he figured she must have been mortified for Jon to see her shame.

"The water is getting cold now," Sansa said, bravely ending the uncomfortable silence. The fire of her voice had been extinguished. "Could you please hand me the towel and robe on the table?"

Jon was to his feet and moving toward the table before he even realized it. He grabbed the towel and robe and headed towards her sure that it was time for him to leave. He didn't want to share in her humiliation any longer. He held up the long towel and looked away, allowing her to stand up and wrap herself. "I have some work I have to attend to."

"You're leaving?"

"I'm allowing you to dress in peace." He was a coward and a liar. He took a step towards the door.

"Jon, look at me," she said more as a demand than a request.  She had stepped out of the tub and stood there dripping water on the floor, the towel covering from the top of her chest to just above her knees. Her arms remained naked and blistered with scars. "You saw my scars."

"Aye," he admitted what both of them knew, but what he was avoiding. "I see."

"And you leave?" she asked, her eyes narrowed. "Without anything to say?"

"Brienne already told me," Jon said, trying to justify his desire to flee. "I am going to fetch some healing ointment for you."

"You see, but Jon, you haven't even seen the worst. I'm covered in these scars. _How does that_ _make you feel_?"

"I feel awful, Sansa." He tried to look into her eyes but he felt so ashamed. Looking into those disappointed blue eyes hurt worse than looking at her actual scars. "I'm so sorry for everything that has happened to you."

"You feel sorry for me?" Her voice cracked. "Is that it? Come here." He avoided her eyes even as he came. When he was close enough, she grabbed his hand, removed his glove and forced him to feel her scarred arms. "Can you feel something more than sorry? Look what Ramsay did to me. _Feel_ what he did to me, Jon. _Please._ "

"I'm sorry," he blurted as she moved his bleeding finger over her scars before he realized how stupid and insulting it was as a response. She didn't seem to even notice the blood.

He caught the fire in her eyes as she dropped her towel and turned her back to him. Sansa had already told him that he hadn't seen the worst of it, but that warning still did little to prepare him for what he saw. There were dozens of welts on her back, so long and swollen, they looked like skin colored maggots frozen into her pale flesh. The hot water from the bath had most of them erupting, oozing pus and blood. "Ramsay's dirty knives and whips have given me itchy hives, and I have rashes between my thighs that hurt whenever I ride or walk. Every step I take hurts. Every time I sit, it hurts. Sleeping hurts. _Shitting hurts._ "

She turned back to face her brother, her eyes swelling with tears. She held both of his hands in place, so that he couldn't run away, and kept her eyes glued to his so that he couldn't hide. "The song I sang for Ramsay that pleased him the most was the one I made about our deal. He hummed it while he supped with his Lords, and hummed it while he watched me use the privy, and hummed it whenever he wanted to get my attention. It was called " _Oh Ramsay, Do It Please._ "

"I don't want to hear it Sansa," he pleaded with her.

But she sang it anyway, the melody and lyrics invading his mind like a sickness. She told him in even more detail than before what Ramsay did - the physical, mental, and emotional abuse, the games he played, the marks he permanently left, the pieces he cut away.

The final song she sang for him was about his 20 men that infiltrated the camp of Stannis. "He wanted one final victory anthem before they went into battle with him. So I gave him a song and a dance, fulfilling my end of our deal. He told me that he loved the song - it was one of my best - and he would be sure to hum it while cutting down the traitors outside of his walls. But because he was going to battle, and there was a chance - as slight as it was -of him dying in battle, he needed to go ahead and put an heir in me."

The tears fell from her eyes. "I told him it wasn't fair. I held up my end of the deal. I reminded him that he promised as long as I gave him song and dance, then he wouldn't put himself inside me. But he was done playing his games, so he threw me on the floor and...I fought him with everything I had. I screamed, and kicked, and punched, and bit him until hot blood filled my mouth. He ripped my gown away and sunk his teeth into my breast until I felt my skin pop."

She yanked down the towel to show Jon and though he reluctantly tried to avoid looking, she won the fight and forced him to look at her breast, a red keloid protruding where a red nipple should have been. She moved the towel back into place after Jon gasped. "Roose Bolton came into the room as Ramsay had me pinned. Told Ramsay to clean himself up and save his energy for the morning's battle. Ramsey left the room. Roose examined my bruises, my cuts, my body, cleaned up the blood with a warm cloth, sterilized my breast with alcohol, and gave me a bandage. I thought he was being kind or was ashamed of his bastard son but guess what he said to me as I wept?" She wiped the tears from one of her eyes but continued staring into Jon, determined for him to know every horrid moment. "He said he would have taken me himself but the games Ramsay played with my body were repugnant." She somehow held herself together as she continued. "In other words, I was too ugly to be raped."

Jon could not speak. He wanted to calm her, wanted to encourage her, wanted to make her pain go away, but no words filled his mouth. He felt as inadequate as he felt sick, unworthy of even being her brother.

"How does that make you feel, Jon?"

"I want to weep for you," he finally spoke, his voice strained and depressed. "I'm desperate to weep, to release the emotions that stir whenever I hear and see of the horrors you have faced. But I simply cannot weep. I try but no tears fill my eyes. I'm broken, Sansa. The Red Woman used magic to bring breath back into a corpse, but my soul is still in the abyss. What kind of true man lacks the ability to cry whenever he is emotionally shaken?" He squeezed her hands. "You want me to be this brave, honor driven man, like the knights in the songs. Others want me to be a God, a savior, a commander."

He shook his head, overwhelmed by the burden of being needed. "Maybe I ought have been that. But my will was taken from me the night I was murdered by my own friends. I cannot express to you how it feels in the last seconds of life, while you are desperately fighting for breaths, but your lungs won't move, a thirst to stand, but your legs won't move, a hunger to reach, but your arms won't move. The fear and the pain and the regret and the anger, it all is meaningless. You are helpless. Your want for vengeance means nothing. Your hate means nothing. Your love means nothing. Your own will to live, nothing. You simply die with all of your desires flashing in front of your eyes, everything you love and hate at the tip of your tongue. Fading into death is exhausting as it is terrifying because it snaps your will right as it matters most to you. Humbles you into submission. And then there is the overwhelming nothingness that swallows you whole."

He could see from the anger in her eyes that she did not understand, could not understand what being murdered felt like. "I need you to know that the will to fight is cultivated, spun together thread by thread as you grow, and learn, and love.  But _I died_. " He was nearly screaming at her. "The thread holding me together is gone. Morale is the bedrock of any fighter. One hundred men with the will to fight are greater than a thousand that lack it."

"Why don't you have _the will to fight for me_?" she cried.

"I'll die fighting for you." Looking into her eyes was like staring into a blue sun. "You have my sword."

"But I don't have your will," she eyed him with contempt. "I don't have your passion. _I don't have you_."

"I'm sorry I'm not what you need me to be."

"How dare you chastise Theon for not fighting for me," she spat, throwing his hands away from her and wiping away her tears. "If what I have shown you today does not inspire more than suicide from you then y _ou should have stayed dead."_ She hugged her towel tight to her chest with one arm and pointed to the door. "Leave."

**

The strong wind is unnaturally silent.

All he can hear are the screams.

He chases them through the snow, and hail, and darkness.

He finds Winterfell. The sight fills his heart with dread.

He's been here before. This moment, this second.

The familiarity blankets him, though he finds no warmth in the intimacy.

He runs past the open gates, into the courtyard, hand on the hilt of Longclaw.

The castle is deserted, dark, empty, soulless, filled with bones, and ghosts. He searches for the screams.

He opens doors and calls out her name. It's the first time he has searched these halls for her.

It was always Robb, or his Father, or Arya. But now it's not.

"Sansa where are you?" Jon shouts at the top of his lungs. His echo answers.

He runs to room after room, frantically, desperately, searching for her, searching for himself.

But he finds the crypts. The remains, the spirits of the Starks.

But he's not a Stark. "I don't belong here. I don't belong here. I don't belong here."

He knows he must enter the crypts but he continues screaming "I don't belong here."

"So why are you here?" he hears. He spins, stumbles, reaches for the voice that appeared out of nothing.

It's the voice of the Red Woman. "You brought me back. Why did you bring me back?"

She doesn't answer him, but he hears the screams again.

He runs into a hallway and finds her. She is naked. Spread over the bed by a man. No longer screaming, singing.

"Deeper, wider, harder, still, Oh Ramsay do it _pleaaaaaase!_ "

He runs but doesn't. He reaches but can't. He's stuck. Frozen in space.

"Lady Sansa tells you so, Here on hands and _kneeeees!_ "

_I should have stayed dead._

Her voice is lovely, beautiful. "Spread her, pull her far apart, Fulfill your every _neeeeed!_ "

He yells silently. The man ravishes her while she sings."Deeper, wider, harder, still, Oh Ramsay do it _pleaaaase!_ "

The man smells of evil, but has darkness for a face.

Commotion fills the hall, men are lined up behind the evil on the bed, waiting their turn.

"Spread her, pull her far apart, Wide until she _bleeeeeds!_ " she sings, her voice lovely, beautiful.

He tries again. He moves not an inch, his will misplaced inside his body.

_I should have stayed dead._

More commotion. More evil men with faces of darkness, dragging a wild child out of the shadows. Rickon.

They toss him forward, Shaggydog's bloody severed head at his feet. Hungry dogs threaten him with barking, and growls, and drool that flies across the room.

"Lady Sansa commands you so, here on hands and _kneeeees!_ "

The dogs attack. They settle on top of him, seven of them in a circle, eating his brother alive.

_I should have stayed dead._

More commotion. More evil men with faces of darkness, dragging out friends, Tormound, Brienne, Podrick, Davos, Edd, women, children, babes.

"Open, tear her hole apart, With scents of rotten _cheeeeese!_ Deeper, wider, harder, still, Oh Ramsay do it _pleaaaase!_ "

Knives appear out of the darkness of the evil faces. Knives that they use to...cut, and cut, and cut the living.

The screams attach themselves to his bones and rattle him. Yet he does nothing but shake from their agony.

"Off her _knees_ , oh off her _knees_ , A lady is given _leaaaaave_!"

_I should have stayed dead._

"To sit the pots and squeeze and squeeze, her shit, her blood, his _seeeeed_!"

**

The breath that awakened Jon was so similar to the one that had brought him back. Full of fear, confusion, despair. And it was _so cold_. He could barely breathe, his chest felt frozen, as did his chilled limbs. He rocked his body, fighting to move as cold water splashed into his mouth, down his throat, into his nostrils. He coughed and gasped for breath but managed to roll his body out of the tub and onto the dirty cold hardwood. He crawled on his forearms and knees across the carpet until he was close to the fireplace. 

He held his hands out over the fire, so close, too close, until he could feel the stinging, burning sensation that meant he still had feeling. 

He folded his wet legs into his chest, held himself together like a newborn and rocked back and forth, naked, shivering, weeping. Ghost came to Jon, crying for him, licking as many of the warm tears from his face as he could, but there were too many. Jon was ashamed for Ghost to see him like this, but he held his direwolf close to his body, for the warmth of his fur, and the comfort of his love, rocking back and forth by the fire as he cried into the night.

_I should have stayed dead_


	4. Sansa II

**Sansa II**

 

Sansa most noticed the pain when she tried to sleep. Her pride was too strong for her to show weakness during the day, when presented in front of others that already saw her as fragile. So she walked gracefully, as if the soles of her feet weren't covered in sores, as if her toes weren't bleeding, and sat with her back straight and shoulders square, even though her bottom was blistered and ruined.

She somehow found a way to concentrate on maintaining an appearance of strength, and ignored the pain. Only when she was alone could she genuinely connect with her own body. And within her body, she felt trapped.

There was a persistent sting at her back and chest and across her limbs, aches in her muscles, and a burning sensation in the fleshy spots of her body once soft and hidden. And she itched all over, though scratching only intensified the stinging and burning. The hot bath had dulled the pain and pleasured the itch, but now she felt her sores oozing juices, and the burning, stinging, itch of her body had returned even stronger.

She found that sleeping on her side with a pillow between her legs was the least painful position if she remained still, but she spent the night tossing and turning anyway. The regret bothered her most, kept her from ever finding a true moment of rest.

She hated that she had sent Jon away with such harsh words. Her attempts to galvanize him had only pushed him further away. The only comfort she could find was that she hadn't told him that Theon, even with his manhood taken, was still twice the man Jon was. The ridicule had been at the tip of her tongue but fortunately she had sent him out of her bedchamber before she could speak such emasculation. Though she avoided mocking his masculinity she still told him that he was better off murdered.

In the moment that her tears, scars, and humiliation didn't seem to move him, she ran him off instead of motivating him towards their mutual goals. She hadn't been clever, or measured, or cunning - just emotional and stupid. Cersei and Littlefinger had both taught her that tears could be useful, but she had mistakenly drowned herself and Jon in them, without any bridge or boat to move them toward justice. And now both of them were injured and isolated, their words as cold and their wills as distant as the hundreds of miles that she had traveled for them to reunite.

She needed to find him again.

That was the last thing she remembered before she drifted into a restless sleep that ended when she was startled awake by a knock at her door. She wobbled over to the knocking and confirmed it was Brienne before letting her inside.

Though the morning seemed young, her Knight was wide eyed and alert, a kind smile to her face. "Pod stood guard over your door while I went to the mess hall to bring you something to break your fast." She unwrapped the plate in her hand and presented it to Sansa. Three boiled eggs, a bun with dried apple and raisins baked into it, a piece of hamsteak with diced onions on top, two thick slices of bacon, and stewed apples. "You have an admirer. I mentioned your name and the fellow in the kitchens, Hobb I believe, went into the back and brought me this plate that he had already gone to the trouble of preparing just for you."

"Thank you, Brienne," said as she received the plate. It was still hot, and the steam smelled rather appetizing, though she didn't have a strong enough appetite to take advantage. She walked over to the table, set the plate down and pinched a piece of the apple from the hot bun to taste. It was soft and sweet but she could not enjoy it. "Was my brother Jon in the mess hall?"

"No, M'Lady," she answered. Brienne had witnesses the aftermath of Jon and Sansa's sudden rift. She saw how upset Sansa had been after Jon left. But Sansa had been elusive about the reasoning behind their dispute. She could see that her decision to keep mum bothered her sworn sword. "I have not see him since he stormed out of here yesterday. I overheard a few brothers mention his absence this morning." She took a long but shallow breath, as if she were choosing her words carefully. "Is everything alright between you two?"

"We just had a minor quibble about tactics." Sansa nervously pinched off another piece of the sweet bread. She didn't want Brienne to know how broken Jon was. She cared deeply about protecting his reputation. Their names were the only things of value the siblings still had, and hers had been sullied by messy marriages. "I wish I could eat all of this but I'm afraid I have little desire to eat." She looked at Brienne with a smile. "We shouldn't let this tasty meal to go waste. You should have it."

"You're kind M'lady but I broke my fast when I was down in the mess hall and I'm already quite filled."

"Well what about Pod?" Sansa inquired.

"I sent him to the mess hall to get breakfast," she said.

"Well perhaps I'll bring this to Jon," she said, wrapping the plate back up with cloth. "Since he wasn't at supper last night and didn't have breakfast this morning, I imagine he is starving. This meal should please him."

"Your brother is capable of keeping himself from starving," Brienne said, a puzzled expression on her face. "If he is avoiding the mess hall, then he probably is having his meals sent to his room."

"Perhaps," Sansa said as she moved to dress herself for the cold. "But not bacon, hamsteak, and bread with raisins, and apples." After she was bundled up in boots, cloak, and scarf, she gave a long look to Brienne, who stood there with her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, as if they were in imminent danger. It made her feel anxious. It made her want a little privacy. "You can stand at ease, Brienne. I'm safe."

"At ease?" she asked, the confusion of her face matching the dubiety of her voice. "I'm preparing to escort you to your brothers bedchamber."

"It's just a short walk across the yard," Sansa said, picking the plate up from the table. "Surely I can manage that without an escort."

"Lady Sansa, I understand that it's close enough but," she took a step toward the woman she was sworn to protect at all cost. "I don't trust the men within these walls. The Night's Watch are filled with rapists and murderers. And then there are the Wildlings, who are known to be even worse. One of them keeps staring at me..." she gave pause to the weight of that Wildling's stare. "Now that I am in your service, I could never forgive myself if you were attacked here while I sat around unaware, doing nothing."

Sansa knew that this was a crucial moment between them. Brienne was her sworn sword, and while she didn't doubt her loyalty, their relationship was still blossoming, still vulnerable to turning sour if Sansa offended her Knight rather than endeared her. Their traveling had revealed that they were very different women with little in common beyond the fact that they were women, so the common ground they shared had to be of mutual respect.

She respected Brienne, and would never ask of her anything that would bring her dishonor, but she needed Brienne to understand a salient truth about the woman she was sworn to; protecting her did not mean smothering her.

She knew she had to choose her words carefully, especially after she had alienated Jon. She couldn't risk pushing away another ally, but beyond practicality, Brienne was genuine and kind, and Sansa truly did not desire to hurt her feelings.

"I am aware of the reputation of the men within these walls," Sansa said, standing before her Knight. She had always wanted a gallant man to be this true to her, but somehow looking into the strong but vulnerable eyes of another woman swelled her heart with a sense of pride that could only be shared between women. The threat of rape for both of them was real, not imagined or overstated, and she wouldn't belittle Brienne for noting it.

"Do not think that I do not share your concern, or that I take your service for granted. You are the answer to every cry for help I offered to the old gods and the new, and I cannot begin to convey how grateful I am for your protection."  She couldn't help but notice the dark bruise on Brienne's face, likely from the fight with the Bolton men. "You have sacrificed your body to save my life."

"And the sacrifice is worth it, M'lady. _You_ are worth it."

They shared a smile before Sansa took her by the hand, deciding Brienne should have a deeper feel for the woman she was protecting. "The last few years, I was subjected to a level of humiliation that goes so much deeper than the cuts and bruises of my skin. In King's Landing, I was a hostage, and I knew there were spies watching my every move. When I was sold to the Boltons, I was treated like a child whenever I wasn't being treated as a whore. I wasn't even allowed to use the privy without my husbands supervision. In moments where I needed privacy more than I needed food or water, the man that physically hurt me was there to invade the time I needed to myself, making sure nothing belonged to me. I still feel watched by him."

She noted how differently Jon and Brienne seemed to react to the details of her torment. Brienne seemed far less reluctant to listen "I don't want to feel like I am always being watched, Brienne. I know that I must be, I know that is what protection entails, but sometimes I feel so watched, that the four walls that offer me protection feel as if they are there to crush me. Sometimes I feel as if I am going to suffocate from the scrutiny. I want to feel normal again. I want to be able to walk across the yard to bring my brother breakfast without worrying that I need a Knight to protect me from the shadows of every corner. Perhaps I am naive in desiring this tiny but comforting bit of normalcy but here I am."

Her knight didn't look upset or offended but their dearth of truly transparent conversations made it difficult to know what she was actually thinking. "I would never order you to abandon your post of protection. I can only ask that you consider my condition and the leeway I desire."

"Lady Sansa, it would horrify me to know that my duty to protect came across as belittlement or even worse, anything resembling the invasion of privacy that you felt with those monsters," she said, a hint of contrition in her voice that Sansa feared would be misplaced.

"You're nothing like those monsters," Sansa insisted. "I'm sorry if I even implied that you were."

"There is no need for an apology M'Lady," Brienne said with a kind smile. The tall woman exhaled deeply, and for a second, it appeared as if her eyes had inflated with tears."I have been waiting, hoping that you would share a bit of your heart with me, so that I could more clearly understand how you think. So I could understand how you feel about me. I know a woman must guard her heart and keep her secrets close, but It can be a bit....hard...to serve someone that is cold or distant."

She looked deep into Sansa's eyes, as if she searching for another person. "What I loved most about serving your mother is how warm and genuine she was to me. I never knew my mother, she died when I was young. And although I was the one with the armor and sword, ironically, serving your mother _made me_ feel safe. She had that kind of warmth to her. I would say a mothers warmth, but I've encountered many mothers, including the Queen Mother, and not many of them exude what I felt from Catelyn Stark. Anybody can vow to reserve a place at their home and table but only a genuine person can actually make those words feel real, and not rehearsed. I once told your mother that she had a woman's courage, something that I was drawn to, and I've been waiting for the right time to tell you that I see that same woman's courage in you, Sansa Stark. And now I also feel the warmth."

Sansa hadn't expected her own eyes to water but they did, for she missed her mother dearly, and because she felt unworthy of being compared to her. Brienne reluctantly, but symbolically removed her hand from the hilt of her sword. "I cannot promise you that my worries will lessen but I will honor your request." Sansa embraced her with a hug that seemed to shock and slightly embarrass her Knight in shining armor. But after a moment of surprise, Brienne wrapped an arm around her shoulder and hugged her back.

Walking into the courtyard by herself felt strange. Castle Black felt so empty compared to the castles that Sansa had visited or lived, their courtyards were almost always bustling with activity, even at night. She knew it was unfair to compare cities and major strongholds to what was effectively a prison for unwanted sons and disgraced men, but even the galley that smuggled her to the Eyrie seemed to have more men aboard than what Castle Black offered.

She always imagined the Night's Watch to be a well-organized rank of soldiers, builders, and rangers - how else could they fight off Wildlings and maintain a Wall one hundred leagues long? - but perhaps all of them had been killed in the battles Jon mentioned participating in, and the remaining brothers were so spread thin that she could walk the entire courtyard without running into a single one.

There was something eerie and sad about how unmolested she was in a castle so large. It made her wonder how the people in charge had let this once proud brotherhood fall into such a decrepit state.

The buildings were falling apart, which she could partly understand given the constant beating they were subjected to this far north, but the poor state of these castles could more appropriately be contributed to neglect. King Robert and the Targaryen dynasty shared most of the blame since their titles professed them as protectors, but she found herself finding fault in the dynasty of Wardens of the North, all Starks, which meant placing blame on her father as well. These men should have done more to uphold the Night's Watch and their castles.

She wondered if Robb would have done more for the Night's Watch. Surely he wouldn't have turned down his brothers request for more men. She found herself enjoying the thought of Robb as King, and Jon as Lord Commander, the two bothers working together to build a stronger North than anyone had ever seen.

But Robb was dead, Jon was no longer Lord Commander, and the North was still disconnected and weak.

If she ever got to council the next King in the North, she noted that she would advise them to do all they could to restore the brotherhood to former glory. It would be difficult, surely, as there didn't seem to be much appeal in joining, except to avoid execution, but perhaps they could adjust the rules.

How much more appealing would the Night's Watch be if women like Brienne were allowed to pledge their lives - strong and determined women that could be taught to fight, and repair castles, and hunt. There were so many whores in the cities, women that had to sell themselves to eat or find a place to sleep, she imagined many of them would much rather learn to defend a Wall than service rude men in brothels.

But this just wouldn't open the door for commoners, she could also see highborn women that didn't want to be married off, deciding that they would rather devote their life to adventure and fighting than having babies for some Lord they wouldn't ever love. _Arya would have joined the Night's Watch with Jon, rather than go to King's Landing with me.  
_

She briefly imagined Arya as a ranger of the Night's Watch, using her needle to fight off invaders, then her being voted as the first ever woman for Lord Commander. She could see her skinny sister demanding that they now refer to them as black sisters and brothers. The thought made her smile, even though it also made her feel sad.

Her smile faded as she suddenly remembered the song of Danny Flint, a girl that had disguised herself as a boy so she could join the Night's Watch. Whenever the black brothers discovered her identity, they raped and murdered her. Sansa had heard the song as a young girl and it was the first time she was introduced to the concept of rape.

She remembered thinking that young Danny Flint should not have pretended to be a boy, that it was the moral to be taken from the song. Looking back, she thought it cruel that any young girl should have ever heard such a song, and suddenly she didn't like the thought of Arya in this cold, depressing place, or any other woman.

She thought over the practicality of men and women working together in a military order that promoted chastity, and thought about realistic outcomes of rape, and children, and infighting that would make her idealistic suggestion a disastrous reality. Even if they garrisoned the women at different castles from the men, she still struggled to picture the black brothers treating their new sisters with dignity. They would probably just think of a castle filled with women as another Mole's Town.

She knocked on Jon's door, her thoughts coming full circle as she sought after the man that was killed by black brothers with no honor. When she got no answer, she shifted the plate of wrapped food into her left hand so she could knock even harder with her right.

"It's me, Sansa," she said loudly, figuring it would be harder for him to ignore her voice than her knocking. When that yielded no response, she turned the doorknob, and was slightly surprised that it turned and allowed her to ease the door open. "Jon," she called into a room that seemed devoid of life.

Her entire journey to to Castle Black had been an exercise in optimism against all odds, but there were times, like this, where she couldn't help thinking the worst. What if Jon had been so distraught over their fight that he had fled with Ghost in the middle of the night? Or maybe he had taken her words to heart and decided that he should return to the nothingness of death. She shuddered from the thought as she walked deeper into the room, while wind and snow blew at her back.

She could not imagine Jon being that craven, but she also had not anticipated him admitting that he had no will to fight for her. _He would at least have left a letter,_ she thought as she examined the room, looking for anything to help solve the mystery of his absence. She stepped lightly across the old floors, as if not to disturb the ghosts she did not believe in, noticing that his bed was neatly made and that his tub was filled with water. _He kept his promise._

Suddenly, she felt watched, and spun around only to find her brother brooding at the doorway with a leather purse around his neck and Ghost by his side. "You startled me," she said, clutching her chest, both relieved and irritated that he hadn't said a word. "Where have you been?"

He moved into the bedroom and eased the door shut behind him. "I was looking through the maesters medicine chests and cabinets," he said softly, no warmth to his voice, no rest to his eyes. "I was on my way to your bedchamber when I saw my door open. What are you doing here?"

She was there to apologize but for some reason she pivoted to her secondary reason. "I brought you breakfast." He looked curiously at the plate of food that she unwrapped and handed to him. "Brienne told me you weren't in the mess hall. And you didn't sup with your brothers last night either."

"Aye," he said without offering any explanation. "Hamsteak and bacon?" he said with a coarse grunt as he lifted the fattiest slice of pork stomach.

"Being a Lady has it's advantages," Sansa joked, hoping to lighten the mood.

Jon folded the entire piece into his mouth. "Hobb has been holding out on his brothers. Hoarding bacon, and ham, and probably sausages too." He didn't seem to find humor in the special breakfast Sansa had received that morning. He was already down on the Night's Watch, after having been murdered by them. Perhaps it had been stupid to present to him more examples of their treachery, however minor in comparison to murder. He used his fingers to shovel some of the stewed apples into his mouth, wiping away the juices with his forearm.

She decided not to stall him any further. "Jon, about what I said yesterday. I'm-"

"This sweet bun is really good," Jon interrupted, smacking his gums loudly as he chewed, illustrating that he wanted no part in revisiting that morning. He whistled and set the plate down on the floor so that his direwolf could have the rest. "Ghost really likes hamsteak."

"Please don't do that," Sansa pleaded with her brother, taking him by his stiff and cold arm as the sound of Ghost gobbling his breakfast filled the air."Don't shut me out. I shouldn't have said what I said."

"What you said was truth," he said without any sign of uncertainty. "I should not be here anymore. What the Red Woman did was unnatural and wrong. _I should_ have stayed dead."

She pondered what to say as she took a deep breath and stared into joyless grey eyes. She desired to dispute his assertion, to even chastise him for accepting the futility of his second chance. But arguing with Jon had proven to be a lousy approach to motivating him. She needed to approach him from a completely different angle, or she risked losing him for good.

As much as it pained her, she let him have his self pity and instead decided to bring the focus back to the treasures inside his purse. "Did you find anything that will heal my scars?" she asked, touching the leather of the bag.

"I found herbs, lotion, and ointment," he answered, though she noticed that it didn't necessarily answer her direct question. "And in my closet I have wine for boiling and vinegar, to help clean your scars. Some of them look badly infected."

"Does the boiling wine and vinegar hurt?" she asked, though she hoped it didn't make her sound weak.

"Aye," he answered, his eyes finally softening as he looked at her. "But there is dreamwine and milk of the poppy to help with the pain."

He walked over to the table and opened the flap of the purse before removing each bottle and vial, setting them down so she could see. "I'm no maester, Sansa. I don't know how these should be applied, what dosage, how often, or anything like that. I went to the library to try and read about the medicines, and even looked at years of notes left in Maester Armon's office related to the soldiers that he treated but I still only have a passing understanding of what should be done." He sighed as he looked at her. "And your scars..."

"Be honest with me," she said with strength, even though deep down, she knew she could never be beautiful again. "All of my life I have seen men around Winterfell with hideous scars that they got from the rebellion, or from a hunting accident, or from fighting Wildlings. And then I went to the capital and I saw half of Ser Sandor's face ruined. Even my former husband Tyrion, as rich and powerful as he was, could not do anything about the slash of his face. And then there are the scars on your face, and the burn scars on your hand and arm. All of you have had access to maesters and their medicines and studied treatments. But all of you are still scarred."

She took a deep breath, having already accepted any treatment to be a fruitless endeavor, though she wanted to hear it from his mouth. "My body will never look or feel like the body I knew before Ramsay, will it?"

"No. The maesters medicines won't heal you." He told her in such a tone that could have been considered cold, though she appreciated him for being so honest. "Your scars are a part of you now."

Ramsay had succeeded in taking her beauty away from her, just like he said he would. Only her face remained fair, though no future husband of hers would ever be satisfied with a pretty face and hideous body, just like she wasn't satisfied with Tyrion's handsome face attached to his stunted body. Irony had a terrible habit of finding and mocking her.

"Thank you for your efforts," she smiled at her brother. "I think I'll get back to my needlework."

"Maesters aren't the only healers, Sansa," Jon spoke, a fire to his voice that had been missing all morning. He reached into the drawer of the desk and pulled out a vial of the truest blue substance that Sansa had ever seen, bluer than the bluest ocean, bluer than the bluest skies. "The Red Woman offered to massage this into my skin, to heal the scars." He walked to his sister and allowed her to feel the glass of the thumb sized vial.

"It's so hot," she noticed, as if the glass bottle had been boiling in water.

"It's always hot," Jon said, looking deeply at the bottle, lost in his thoughts, or lost in the blue. "The Red Woman tried to seduce me before, back when Stannis was at the Wall. She failed in her seduction, but a day or so later, she found me as I was thinking, telling me that she desired to heal the scars on my face."

He found Sansa's eyes. "She told me the ointment was something she made herself after collecting powders and potions from all over the known world. She said just one drop was enough for miracles, two drops was much too much. Before I could even deny her assistance, she used a knife to slice her own face, clear across her cheek, until blood stained the knife and dripped like water from her face. I was horrified, thinking she had gone mad, or was doing some ritualized blood magic. But she told me she wanted me to see for myself. She dabbed just a drop of this ointment on the tip of my finger and had me rub it into her bleeding wound like this," he said as he slowly massaged the side of Sansa's face with his finger.

"When I wiped the blood away, I saw for myself. There was no gash, no wound, nothing but a bit of stained blood on her pretty face. "

"It healed her?" Sansa asked, letting her eyes fall from his to again look at the blue vial.

"I thought perhaps it was an illusion, some sort of trick," Jon said. "But as a matter of perspective, after she brought me back, what reason do I have to doubt her?"

"So why is your face still scarred?" Sansa asked as she touched the lines of faintly healed scars above his eyes, from where he had been attacked by a savage bird.

"I refused her help," Jon said. "There was something about her that I could not trust. Every time I was around her, I found her looking at me, evaluating me, _wanting_ me. Her stares made the hairs of my body stand at attention, and her voice made my heart skip beats."

"Sounds as if you love her," Sansa said, trying to parse out his words to comprehend them.

"No," he barked with conviction. "I've only loved one woman. A Wildling woman. _Ygritte."_ Saying that name out loud seemed to suck life from his chest. "The Red Woman did something to unnatural to capture Ygritte's distinct scent, her distinct words, her essence. And she offered it to me. But there was something wrong about it." He swallowed the spit that had built in his mouth. "I've been in possession of this vial since that day, though I've never been tempted to use it, until now."

She took the hot glass from him and held it inside her palm. The heat felt good. She didn't know whether to share Jon's concerns, or feel blessed.  "Do you really think this would heal my scars completely?"

"I don't know, Sansa. I just know that Melisandre said it would _heal mine_."

"You never thought to test it on your stab wounds?" she asked.

"No," he shook his head. "And even if it could heal them, I still wouldn't use it. My wounds are evidence of my death." He laughed bitterly, touching his heart. "It's political now. The wounds from my death are what might save me from being executed for being a deserter."

She agreed with his thoughts, and thought to apply them to her own skin. "Perhaps my scars are political too. They can be used as a rallying cry, to show the North what happened to Ned's daughter."

"No," Jon scoffed without second thought. "If there is any chance of healing every inch of your body, then that is what should be done. You deserve to have the body you had before you were sold to the Boltons."

Jon's aspiration for her was kind, and endearing, if not also disappointing and stupid. It made her think about Littlefinger, the conniving snake disguised as a mockingbird. He would have saw the perfect opportunity to use her damaged body for sympathy. But Jon was too noble to be that clever.

Strangely, embarrassingly, she missed Lord Baelish. She hated him, and would have him executed if ever given the opportunity, but she still missed him. Not the way she missed Robb, or Lady, or Bran, or even the way she missed Margery or The Hound. She wasn't fond of Littlefinger the way she was fond of others that she missed, but Lord Baelish made her think in ways that nobody else could push her to think.

She missed observing him, pondering mysteries with him, wondering aloud what his next political move would be. It was his mind, as cruel and twisted as it was brilliant, that made him attractive. She would have been willing to give herself to him, would have been willing to climb his ladder of chaos, if only he hadn't deceived her into thinking she was more than just a rung for him to step on.

But despite her anger and hatred towards Lord Baelish, she could not deny that his words were forever ringing inside her head. He had permanently left his mark, as deep as any Ramsay had inflicted, and she couldn't help but desire clever thinkers _like him_.

She had little patience for those that couldn't think beyond their next step, and Jon, as much as she loved him, he wasn't clever enough to think steps ahead. And men that weren't clever were the men that always met an untimely demise. How else could Kings and great Lords perish unceremoniously, while people with little perceived power like Littlefinger or the Boltons kept thriving?

Jon had already been killed once for being too noble and bravely stupid for his own good, was he now going to get her killed too? And what of his advisors? Savage Wildlings, rapists and murderous brothers, a witch, and an onion knight. _He's surrounded by idiots._

"Did you walk here by yourself?" Jon interrupted her thoughts, the concern of his voice endearing, but again, not wanted. "Where is your Knight?"

"She gave me leave to walk alone." She had already had this conversation with Brienne, and she didn't feel up to having it again. "We're aware of the dangers. I hope you don't feel the need to lecture me."

"I'm just thinking," Jon said, his protective side slowly but surely coming back to him. "Hobb was brought here because of what he did to a woman that was teaching him to cook." He must have picked up on some cue in her face because he decided not to go into detail. "Sansa, I just would feel more comfortable if you had a companion. You made me promise to have a bath last night and I followed through. Can you make me a promise now?"

"I won't promise you to take Brienne with me everywhere I go."

"That's not what I am suggesting. I remember what you told me about Ramsay. " His voice was low but not weak, his stare hard, but kind. "I imagine that you value being able to take a walk in the yard without someone peaking over your shoulder. I know you need your freedom, but I feel that you also need a companion. I feel there is a compromise that can be made, where you have reasonable privacy, but still are safe." He took a knee and ran his hands through the white furs of his wolf. "Promise me that you will allow Ghost to be your companion while we're here at Castle Black."

"Ghost?" Sansa asked, shocked at his offer. "He's your wolf."

"He's my friend," Jon said, eye-level with Ghost. "My family." He massaged his shaggy white fur, looking deeply into the dogs eyes, communicating something that Sansa was not privy to. Whenever he finished bonding with the wolf, he gave a hard look to his sister. "Our family, our pack should have never separated. We were at our strongest whenever we were united." He gave her a hopeful smile. "But our pack isn't gone yet. Me, you, and Ghost. But you need his presence more than I do right now. So do you promise me to let him stand by your side?"

"I promise," she said instinctively, before she could throw a clever or cunning thought to the proposition. She was just so happy that Jon had pieced together a solution that would allow her to retain her dignity and safety. She took a knee, though the sores on her body made her feel the sting of bending, but she smiled despite the pain, as Ghost ran into her arms and she buried her face into his thick coat of white as snow fur.

The vial in her hand was still hot, as if to remind her not to forget that it was there and after letting Ghost lick her face she came to a conclusion. She winced as she stood, convinced that she owed it to herself to heal her body. She walked over to Jon's bed and removed her scarf, setting it neatly aside, before moving on to her cloak.

"Why are you disrobing?" Jon asked as he watched her drop the cloak on top of the bed.

"You said I deserve to have my body back," Sansa said as she turned her back to him so she could undo the buttons at the chest of her dress. She popped them open. "I happen to agree with you."

"So what are you suggesting?" she heard him say as she dropped the dress down so she could slide her arms out of the long sleeves.

"I cannot apply the ointment to my own back," she said, holding the dress close to her chest to keep it from falling down, her bare back and shoulders again exposed to her brother. When she turned she saw that he was looking away. "I need someone to do it for me."

"What about Lady Brienne?" Jon asked, his eyes toward the floor, either his modesty or fear keeping them there.

"What about you?" She didn't want to argue with him, didn't want to push him into something he couldn't feel comfortable with. But she needed Jon, not Brienne, to aid in her healing, not just for her, but because it would benefit him as well. She waited in silence until her brother finally looked at her. "I trust Lady Brienne with my life. But there is not another person living that I trust more than you with my scars."

"You don't think it would be indecent?" he asked.

"What was done to me was indecent," she answered. "What I am asking of you is heroic."

She gave him a long look of trust until his stance softened and he gave her a nod of consent. She crawled into the bed and lay flat on her belly, her dress clinging to her hips to allow Jon full access to her arms as well as her lower and upper back. She felt excited, and nervous, and vulnerable, and hot, and cold, and alive as she heard Jon's footsteps behind her.

She was so sure she would have to hide behind thick coats and long sleeved dresses for the rest of her life, all because of the shame of the ugly scars that decorated her. But perhaps she would once again feel comfortable inside her body.

"Just your back?" he asked, while he must have been getting a closer look at how damaged it was.

"For now," she answered, deciding not to burden him with the thought of her entire body needing his healing touch.


	5. Jon III

 

**Jon III**

If not so gruesome, the atrocity that befell her back might have been considered artful.

There was a precision, a patience in the arrangement of scars on her back.

He remembered when Lady Catelyn had commissioned craftsmen and painters from Lys, and Norvos, and Qohor to come to Winterfell to replace old, faded tapestries with pretty, warm looking ones. The tapestry that hung in the reading room was a pattern of Tully colors, red and blue, with hints of black. Alas, so were Sansa's bruises and scars.

Perhaps Ramsay fancied himself as some sort of artist, and Sansa had been the canvas for him to draw and paint his sadistic essence upon.

"Just your back?" Jon asked as he looked upon her from shoulder to lower back, horrified yet amazed at the restraint Ramsay had in limiting his abuse to hidden places.

"For now," she said before holding the blue vial over her head so Jon could take it. She brought her weight back down to the bed and lay her left cheek on her hands. "I know how bad it is. I'd just like to be able to sleep on my back without pain. Do we even have enough ointment in that vial to treat me?"

"The Red Woman told me that one drop was enough. Two drops was too much." He looked at the blue substance that was supposed to work miracles. He wasn't sure what would happen if he used too much at once, though he knew overdosing on certain medicines like milk of the poppy was fatal. He wondered if even mentioning this mysterious treatment to his sister had been ill-considered. "This stuff is probably dangerous, Sansa."

"I'm sure it is, Jon. But the Red Woman would not have brought you back if she intended you harm. She wanted to use this to help you. _To_ _heal you_. I have no reason to trust this witch as a true friend but I see no reason why we should distrust the value of her magic."

Though not nearly as certain as her, he nodded to no one, and pulled the stopper out of the glass. The scent that flowed into his nostrils took his breath away and nearly made him stumble. He inhaled deeply to savor the crisp smell of snow and wet rock, with hints of pine and animal fur. The smell was so clean and rich, and overpowered the usual dankness of his bedchamber.

"Gods, the smell is so strong!" Sansa exclaimed. She moved her body to peer over her shoulder, her thick red hair dangling sweetly over her face.

"It smells like a cave," he said.

"A cave?" she scoffed before inhaling deeply. "What sort of wretched caves have you journeyed into, brother?" She gave the air another whiff and blinked bitterly before swallowing. "The stink of wine and blood is so strong that I can taste it on my tongue. And my nose feels like it was just bathed in smoke."

"That's strange." Jon tried to smell what she did, but could not pick up any of those hints. "You make it sound unpleasant but it smells really good to me."

"Actually, the scent is rather pleasant. Strong and perhaps a little masculine but it's a welcomed interruption from the usual smells that cling to my nose here at Castle Black."

"So the smell of blood, smoke, and wine is more pleasing than a crow?" Jon asked with a bewildered laugh. "The Night's Watch stinks so bad that my lady prefers the perfume of war."

"Don't make fun," Sansa tossed at him with enough of a grin that he knew she didn't consider his teasing to be malicious. Her grin grew into a grimace as one of her eyes closed tight. "Seven hells."

"What's wrong?" Jon asked.

"Oh just the constant itching," she said while moving a hand to scratch at her hip. "I'm convinced Ramsay filled my covers with poisoned kisses before he had them sent to me - so I had the choice of freezing or wrapping myself in covers that give me rashes. He loved games like that." She continued digging deep into her flesh. "Every day I try in vain to scratch away my rashes but my arms never grow long enough to reach the strongest itch and my nails never sharp enough to itch away the itchiest itch."

"Scratching only worsens it," Jon said, observing the fat bumps of her rash, remembering the time he had broken out in bumps after playing in a field of poisoned flowers and grass. "It's only going to spread it."

"Yes, but at least it _feels good,"_ she said in relief, scratching so hard that he felt her skin would be stripped away.

"Just because it feels good doesn't mean it's good for you," Jon said, repeating old wisdom he'd heard before. "Sometimes our impulses are wrong."

"You sound like father," she said, scratching hard at the curve of her back now. He saw for himself that she was unable to reach for the itch that bothered her most. "You almost look like him too, with your Northern armor and hair pulled back." Jon leaned over and scratched at the part of her back she was failing to reach. She let out a sigh before saying "a little to the left."

He scratched and she moaned. She told him to scratch harder and he did. He enjoyed the heavy breathing and noises of pleasure she was making as he relieved her itch, even if wisdom told him this was only going to spread the rash further, deeper. After all of the pain she endured, it pleased him to please her.

"Gods be good, that was everything I needed," she said out of breath. "Thank you so much."

"Don't thank me yet," Jon said as he looked at the vial in his hand. He still wasn't sure treating her with this substance was wise. They couldn't even agree on what it smelled like; blood or snow, wine or pine, smoke or rock. He inhaled the comforting scent again. "You think I ought to test this on a smaller scar of mine first?"

"Your scars are political now, remember? We cannot spare any, each tell a story that you'll need to share. And the test is with my body anyway." She looked over her shoulder at him with anxious blue eyes that pleaded her case. "I don't want to go another day feeling this ruined and ugly. I don't want to go another restless night. I want to be healed. I appreciate your caution but spare me lectures of the risks and dangers. I know them. I accept them. Heal me."

Her head settled on her hand, though she continued to look at him. He sensed her vulnerability and desperation, but it was her bravery that convinced him most as he lifted the hot vial and dabbed a single drop on the tip of his finger, as Melisandre had done in her demonstration.

But where she had directed him to rub his finger across a slice no longer than a thumb, Jon knew this drop had to be spread over a much larger area, so he set the vial down and rubbed his hands together. To his surprise, the immediate feeling to his palm was a cold numbness, a sensation contrary to the hotness of the vial itself.

An even bigger surprise came as he realized the single drop had both of his hands slick and dripping with the silky substance. Before the oil could drip to the floor he placed both hands at the top of her shoulders and massaged his palms down to see how much grease he would have to work with. Enough for her shoulders and most of her back, he assessed in amazement, all from a single drop. Two drops _was_ much too much.

"It's cold," Sansa breathed, as Jon massaged at her uneven, broken skin.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, pausing his hand movement.

"No," she said barely above a whisper. "The pain feels as if it's being dulled. Did you only use one drop?"

"Aye, and it has both of my hands dripping."

"Yes I can feel it," she said with some measure of excitement. "Perhaps that vial does have enough for every inch of me."

Jon bit down on the inside of his cheeks to distract him from the warm tension he felt at the improper thought of rubbing hands hands over _every inch_ of her _._ He rubbed vigorously, in circles, side to side, up and down, randomly, watching her complexion glisten, but seeing no change to the damage stitched to her skin. When his hands reached her hips, where her dress clung, he felt her body become stiffer than his battle hardened fingers. "Am I being too rough?"

"No, it's not that," she insisted as her narrow hips twisted in his hands. "It burns."

No sooner did she speak did he notice the burn in his hands too, a good burn that made his fingers tingle. "I feel it too." The suddenness of cold skin becoming hot was jarring but made his own hands feel alive with feeling. "Does it hurt?"

"It's a queer sensation, but not painful," she said as his thumbs and fingers nipped at the maggot-sized welts, and his hands kneaded her rashes and bruises. He was uncertain about it all, if he was being too hard or too soft, if she needed more pressure or less. If he should talk or remain silent. She must have picked up on the lack of confidence. "Is this your first time giving someone a rubdown?"

"It is," he admitted.  "Apologies if I'm doing something wrong. I'm no m-"

"Maester," she interrupted. "Yes, you've told me what you're not several times now. This actually feels very nice. " Her encouragement might not have improved his massage any, but it did make him feel a little better about it. After a few moments of silent rubbing, she spoke again. "Where is your maester?"

"Maester Aemon died shortly before I did."

Saying it out loud felt strange. But she didn't let him dwell on it. "I know that. I'm talking about his replacement. When does he arrive?"

"When?" Jon chuckled bitterly. "When is a good question. We've requested men, supplies, food, horses, you think of what we would need to survive winter, and we've begged for it. But we're always at the risk of being ignored by everyone south of here.

I was going to request for Maester Harmune at Eastwatch to come to Castle Black, but I hear he is an old drunk, and would have trouble surviving the trip in the elements. Moreover it would have left Eastwatch without a maester, so I thought it sensible to wait for the Citadel to send Aemon's replacement. How long will it take? I can't answer. We're still waiting for the maester we requested when I was going to rebuild Greyguard. "

The ointment seemed as if it would never absorb into the skin. He took a deep breath and pressed harder. "I even sent my best friend to Oldtown to forge a chain but he's not likely to return before my hair begins to grey, if at all." He felt angry and depressed at never seeing Sam again. A dark colored boil he thought a mole ruptured, spilling blood and puss, though she scarce seemed to notice as he wiped away the mess.

"I never expected to be voted Lord Commander at my age. I was never educated on how to to run this broken place. I was never taught how to properly beg for what should be ours by law. I was never briefed on how to manage a shortage of builders, rangers, maesters, and still maintain castles that need hundreds of men to remain viable. So if I seem void of answers, it's a hard reflection on the brothers that thought not to leave me with any."

He sighed. He hadn't felt optimistic since Stannis saved The Night's Watch from Maynce Radar's army. He had allowed himself to think that King Stannis was the answer to the political turmoil. That the Watch could rebuild itself once Stannis sat the Iron Throne. But Stannis was dead, and so were his promises. "It's not up to me anymore. Edd will have to deal with The Watch, the rogues that inhabit it, and the realm that has forgotten us."

"Who is your best friend?" Sansa asked, stirring confusion as silence overtook them for a moment. "Have you forgotten? You just mentioned sending your best friend to Oldtown. I do not recall you mentioning having friends, except for our dear brother Robb. I assumed you were a loner here. But loners don't have best friends. I want to know who this man is."

"Sam," Jon said to himself, remembering that he had referenced him so casually during his rant. It made him smile to know that he had called Sam his best friend without even realizing it. "Samwell Tarly."

"Tarly?" Sansa spoke, clearly familiar with the surname. "Is he related to Lord Randyll Tarly?"

"His oldest son," Jon said as he worked the ointment into her sores. From what Sam had said of his father, the man was cold and ruthless, qualities that lent themselves well to one of the finest military generals in Westeros. But his treatment of Sam made Jon hate him without ever needing to meet him. "Did you meet Lord Tarly at court while in the capital?"

"No, not personally," she said with a little moan as Jon touched her. "But I saw him receive recognition and reward as a war hero after the Battle of the Blackwater. I also once overheard Lord Tyrion say that Tarly should be Warden of the South instead of Queen Margery's father." She turned to look at Jon, holding her dress tight to her chest. "I remember Lord Tarly's son and daughters being there with him. Why would his heir take the black?"

"You must have seen his second son Dickon," Jon said as he pressed his fingers into his palms, assessing how much of the ointment had dried. His hand was still slick. "His first born Sam was ranging beyond the Wall with me when that battle was taking place. I guess this is when Sam became my best friend. The one I told my secrets to. The one that made me laugh. The one that helped me get elected in the first place."

Sansa twisted her lips before turning away and laying back flat against the bed. "Your friend Sam must have done something truly dishonorable, then, to be highborn and that well thought of by you and still a crow."

"Sam did nothing dishonorable," Jon asserted with conviction. "Most timesThe Watch is a place for men that have disgraced themselves, but other times it's a place to send your unwanted sons. Sam wasn't what a hardened war hero like Lord Tarly wanted for a son. Sam was fat, and liked to dance, and preferred a book to a sword. He was cunning, perhaps the smartest man I've ever met, but his father saw him as a fat, soft coward. So his father gave him the choice of joining the honorable Night's Watch or going on a hunt into the wilderness where he would never return."

Jon briefly regretted his words right after speaking them. Randyll Tarly was a Lord and could have him executed for associating him with kinslaying, but the regret faded when he opened his mouth to speak again. "Fuck Randyll Tarly, he's the dishonorable one."

"You must really care for your friend Samwell," Sansa said after his profanity had lingered awkwardly for too long. "For his mistreatment to provoke such anger."

"He's a good person," he said, kneading her shoulders, enjoying the way her blades fit so softly in his palms. "That's damn tough to find at a place like this. He was one of the few people I could trust."

"So why would you send him away?" She seemed sincerely puzzled by the decision. "You're surrounded by people you can't trust - idiots and murderers. He's the smartest man you've ever met, but at Oldtown, he's no use to you. Why send away such a friend like that?"

"I told you we needed a maester."

"But you said yourself that he won't return for many years, if at all." She paused and sweetened her voice. "You have an immediate need for a maester. Sending him to the Citadel didn't address that, brother." His mouth opened to speak but defense for his decision didn't come. She broke the silence. "I'm not trying to chastise you, Jon. I'm just really curious. I've never had the stress of leadership, so I cannot begin to assume I would know how to command under pressure. But I do want to understand how you came to the decision."

"It wasn't my decision," Jon confided out loud for the first time. "I mean, I gave the command, I gave him leave, but he was the one that suggested it. He was nearly beaten to death as he tried to protect Gilly from being raped by his sworn brothers."

"Gilly?"

"His wildlind wife - or girlfriend."

"He married a wildling?"

Jon sighed. He knew it sounded confusing. But he didn't want to go over the hard details like the daughters Craster kept as wives, or the sons he sacrificed.

"He saved a wildling woman that was with child and brought her to the Wall. As I said, he's a good man, and braver than most will ever give him credit for. He didn't abandon them when most would have left them for dead. He grew to love them, both Gilly and the babe. She named the babe after him. But women and children aren't safe here. Luckily, they got out a day or so before I was stabbed."

He felt her judging him even though she hadn't said a word in response as he continued massaging her. "I know it sounds like he used our lack of a maester as an excuse to flee south with them. But Sam isn't much of a fighter, him being a maester is truly the best use of his skills."

"I see," Sansa said, her voice still sweet and gentle, though it did little to soften the bite. "It's just convenient that he had to convince you of this right as the White Walkers are coming, right after his lady's safety was threatened, right before you were murdered."

"What are you saying?" Jon spat.

"I'm not saying anything." Her voice was kind and sweet, which irritated him even more.

"You are," Jon insisted. "Just say it."

"What do you want me to say?" she asked.

"That you think he used me." He wasn't sure if he was angry at her for asking, angry at Sam for leaving, or angry at himself for defending him. "If you think he used our friendship for his benefit just tell me."

"You said it Jon. I'm only asking questions. I'm sorry if the questions have flustered you. I understand that you don't wish to think bad things about your friend, but please don't levy your frustration at me."

Jon refused to speak for fear of saying something he would regret. He was beyond frustrated, but those feelings were only magnified because of his own confusion. Who was the source of his anger? Who deserved his temper?

Jon had become so adept at hiding what hurt. It came with spending so many nights hiding in the shadows, wiping away tears. Tyrion Lannister had once advised him to wear his insecurities like armor so that nothing could hurt him. He tried that for awhile, but it worked better to simply have the insecurities beaten out of you. The less of you there was, the less chance you had of being hurt by anything.

He thought being murdered by his brothers had done that. That the hurt of that betrayal would finally free him from the shackles of his identity as a bastard hoping to prove himself as worthy to have been born. 

But Eddard Stark's spoiled little brat had to come through those gates with her scars and songs. She was still entitled. She knew what _belonged_ to her. Winterfell, vengeance, even her bastard brother that she never cared for. It was all hers.

Strangely, he didn't resent her for it. She deserved everything she claimed as hers. He just wished he had it in him to give it all to her. It's that desire that was so strange and new. It was a craving moving inside his belly, a yearning that made him feel warm, a want that made him _feel alive,_ an instinct he couldn't deny to touch her, give her what she desired, make her feel good.

Sansa Stark hadn't always made him feel that way.

Highborn and perfect, she had always called him bastard, her other brother, her half-brother - and for it his respect, and love, and need for her had always been half-full.

But now his cup overflowed and he couldn't drink from it fast enough. He liked talking with her, learning who she was past the beauty and name, and he especially liked making her feel good. Despite his irritation, it was this newfound pull to his sister that kept hands at her slim shoulders, sliding them down the broad part of her back, down to the curve, molding the flesh of her hips, serving her like she deserved to be served.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you," he said as he applied pressure to the tightness at the nape of her neck.

Her simple questions about Sam exposed feelings that he wanted to bury, feelings he thought died with him the first time. But it was nothing she should have been blamed for. "It just hurts to accept that Sam used my fondness for him against me. I saw that he was eager to protect Gilly and little Sam. I just refused to see him using Maester Aemon's death as his excuse to get out of here and never look back. I guess I can't fault him for doing whatever it took to get them to safety."

"No fault in protecting the woman you love at all cost," Sansa said.  There was a moment where neither spoke, and just the crackle of fire and friction of oily skin being pressed filled the room. Only after she cleared her throat did she speak again saying "Do you remember when I first arrived here and asked where would you go after you left Castle Black?"

"Aye," Jon said. It was days ago, but the days since his resurrection had been a blur of nightmares, songs, and snow. He scarcely remembered what he'd had to eat, or most of the interactions he'd had, but he vividly remembered the night of her arrival in intimate detail. Thinking about it made him laugh. "I told you fathers Ghost would haunt me if I didn't take you with me. So the question turned into 'where would _we_ go?'"

"Right," she chuckled softly. "You never answered the question though. Where would you have taken me?"

Jon didn't know how to confront the question, mostly because he didn't know her motive for asking. "Are you having second thoughts about going back to Winterfell?"

"No it's not that," she stressed, turning her head slightly towards him. "I'm just curious. I know I say that a lot but my curiosity and imagination has been my closest companion since father died. In King's Landing, The Eyrie, Winterfell, I always found myself making plans for escape.

I was too afraid to follow through on any of them but I still kept my mind busy with ideas of smuggling myself to distant lands, or outmaneuvering Lords and Ladies like Cersei, and Baelish, and Roose Bolton. I'm interested in the way people think of their feet, how they make clever decisions during a crises. With ice demons at our backs and flesh demons in our home, I want to know what was your plan. Where would we go if we decided to flee?"

"We would go south." He could see her skin absorbing the ointment, but the magic didn't seem to be working as it did on the Red Woman's cheek.

"But the entire realm is south of here. That doesn't narrow it down much," she said. "And how would we get south?"

"The same way we got north," Jon answered, his thumbs rubbing up her sides in circles. "I was thinking about going to the Quiet Isle." He sensed that his sister had never heard of the name. "It sits at the mouth of the Trident. Commander Mormont once told me that years ago a ranger had managed to dessert and disappear from the Night's Watch. He was a brittle 78 years old when they finally found him on the Quiet Isle. He died of old age before he could even be executed. It's not a lavish island but it's warm and seems to have the reputation of being remote and unnoticed by anyone that matters."

"And quiet," Sansa mused with a moan. "Good place to disappear. But we would have to make it to the Riverlands by horse. The Lannisters are looking for me, the Boltons are looking for me, Littlefinger as well. I've traveled the King's Road to and fro and there are spies that sell information all about. We could disguise ourselves as farmers or merchants but I'll let you identify what would give us away."

Jon pondered a moment. "Ghost," he said, causing his direwolf to stand at attention. He chuckled as his stiff fingers made his sister breathe heavily. "A couple of farmers traveling with a direwolf by their side wouldn't be very inconspicuous. But we could avoid inns and the King's Road."

"It would be extremely dangerous and not to mention very strenuous. It may not come to you as a surprise, but I am a liability during travel. I cannot defend myself with a sword if we were to be accosted on some alternate path. I must confess that I also struggle to ride for long lengths of time. I would need to rest often and if we wouldn't eat at an Inn, then I would need someone by my side while you or Brienne or Podrick went to hunt. And that's even assuming we could safely slip by soldiers and scouts at Last Hearth, Winterfell, and Moat Cailtin, which I'm not convinced is even possible."

"Perhaps you are right," Jon said after reflecting on the obstacles that she mentioned. "It seems more prudent to travel by ship."

"Would you be able to book us travel?" she asked, her voice shallow and moist with pleasure.

"We have ships at Eastwatch," Jon said, trying hard to focus on the conversation and not the way her body moved sensually to his hands. "But most of the sellsails have returned to Braavos after Stannis' defeat. That only leaves the Watch captains and shipmates and I hesitate to think of what they would do if we arrived there demanding a ship."

"They would execute you and send me to the Boltons," Sansa said without any hesitation. "If you have any coin we could commission travel from fisherman on the coast or pay to travel on a merchant ship. We let Theon have the purse of silvers we found on the Bolton men that tried to capture us. He also had his horse and sailing skills to offer. If that was enough for him to book passage to the Iron Islands then I imagine it wouldn't take too much more to get to the Riverlands."

"That's assuming Theon even made it. He's one of the most hated men in the North. The fisherman and merchants on the coast is who his kind have hit the hardest. It's more likely that he arrived at a village, had his horse and coin taken, and then was hanged for his crimes. You should have kept the silvers for yourself." He sighed when she didn't say anything. "But what's done is done."

"Perhaps you're correct but until I receive word of Theon's death, I'm going to believe he'll find his way home." He couldn't understand why his sister had forgiven the traitor, or wished for the vagabond to find peace, but he wouldn't argue with her about it. Not now, at least, as her soft skin melted around his fingers. "I could be wrong in my assumption, but does the Night's Watch not receive income?"

"We receive taxes," Jon said, though it had been many years since that included coin, just goods and labor. He saw where she was going with her question. "However, it belongs to the Night's Watch. I'm no longer in the Watch. I wouldn't dare steal any of their income so I could flee."

He spoke what he felt, but even if honest and decent it didn't sound as persuasive said aloud as it felt inside his head. He remembered when Stannis had told Jon that he was honorable and Jon had thanked him for it.

"I didn't mean it as praise," Stannis had said to him in his usual curt tone. _"Honor got your father killed."_

"But you were murdered by the Watch," Sansa said, breaking his memory. "You've earned the right to take restitution. It's no more wrong than you giving me old, unused clothing that belong to the Watch so I can make a dress for myself."

"It's stealing even if you call it something else," Jon insisted, maintaining his position. She was so devious now, and it intrigued him as much as it troubled him. "This place is in a bad enough condition for me to make it worse by stealing what little they have left. And I doubt I would even make it out of those gates alive." But this time the brothers would be right to kill him _for The Watch_. "I do have my sword to sell if we could ride safely to the fisherman villages where Theon intended to buy passage."

"Valyrian steel is much too valuable to be sold to some local fisherman or merchants. Your sword is more valuable than the entire village in which it would be sold to," Sansa stressed.

"Indeed. Father always told me that Valyrian steel was priceless. Lords that owned one would sooner part with their daughters than sell their sword," Jon remembered out loud. "But it is really the only thing of value that I have in my possession."

"Aside from me," Sansa joked, her voice as sweet as perfume and cakes.

"Aye, aside from you," Jon chuckled as he pressed hard. "With that juxtaposition on the table I have to disagree with father. You're priceless. The steel isn't."

"Fair my dear brother but the steel is _near_ as valuable as me," she said with a smile he couldn't see but heard. "Fisherman in villages can't have it. Wheat selling merchants can't either."

"So who can?" he asked.

"You tell me." She gave him a moment but when he didn't speak she added "Littlefinger always had friends - or should I say people he called friends. People with gold, or ships, or land, or power that he could use to move freely and set his traps and plans in motion. Many times he carried with him something even more valuable than Valyrian steel - _secrets_."

"And virgin daughters of famous Lords," Jon made sure to include.

"That as well - but no matter how valuable his goods, it mattered not if he didn't have the network of _friends_ in place to move from one place to another. Navigating the map was half the game. Do you have any _friends_ to help you navigate?"

"I lived all my life in Winterfell and came to Castle Black before I was even a man," Jon answered her without much further thought. "When or how would I have been able to make friends with anyone other than wildlings and white walkers?"

When she didn't give Jon a response, he gave deeper consideration to her inquiry. She was attempting to kindle his imagination, to think like the clever people she had encountered in the south, to see _friends_ for their advantages and not their friendship. "Ser Davos is a _friend_ ," Jon blurted as soon as the Onion Knight's face entered his mind. "He used to be a smuggler. He ought to have a network of _friends_ with ships that could smuggle us out of the North."

"But can a pirate be trusted?"

"Ser Davos is not a pirate. He's trustworthy. An honorable man. So honorable that I'm unconvinced that he would help. He expects me to lead the free folk. He believes me to be the only man capable of keeping the peace between them and...everyone else. I do not think he would be happy about helping me run from my duty."

"Perhaps he wouldn't be happy, but it's all about persuasion. I believe you could persuade him to our side," Sansa purred. "The wildlings are not yours to protect. I'm yours. I'm your duty. Surely he could understand that."

Her voice was as persuasive as it was sweet; bittersweet like the tasty wine father let them sip at feasts. But there was a reason father never let them indulge past a cup. Drunkenness could led men astray, so too could pretty girls. "Let's say he did help us. Word would spread. Assassins would be hired. And we still wouldn't have any money. Would you truly be satisfied living a hidden, quiet life in the Quiet Isle where you could never be Sansa Stark again?"

"We wouldn't have to go to the Quiet Isle. You have more friends than just Davos."

"Like who?"

"We just spoke of him."

"Sam? He's at the Citadel and they don't allow women there."

"Yet he took his family there," Sansa argued. "If he can find shelter for his Wildling woman and child, surely he could find a roof for his best friend and best friend's little sister. We wouldn't have to stay there long, just long enough to sell the sword."

"To who?" Jon asked, eager to see how far ahead his sister could think.

"Well, _to who_ is a good question, but it's why Oldtown would be such a good location to solicit an offer, no?"

"Well, it is a port city," Jon reflected, realizing with each second of thought that she was right. "There would be ships coming in from all over the known world. Every major house would have a presence there, just like in the capital. Plus there would be translators to help us speak to rich merchants from Essos."

"We wouldn't want to stick our heads out too often. People in the south have seen me and connections would be made if anyone spotted an auburn-haired woman selling a sword." She paused a moment and exhaled blissfully, clearly enjoying Jon's touch. "We could use Samwell as the middleman for the sale. He's highborn and fat, so he could pass himself well as a wealthy merchant looking to unload a sword he personally has no attachment to. Thinking on it, he could also offer to sell it to the Citadel."

"Why would maesters want to buy a sword?"

"Maester Luwin had a chain link forged of Valyrian steel," she said. "I think, for the study of magic."

"But don't you remember? Maester Luwin told us that very few maesters ever seek to study magic. One in one hundred students."

"Mayhaps more would study magic if they had a plentiful supply of the metal," Sansa suggested with a little shrug that caused her sores to expand. "Someone at the Citadel has to be able to rework the metal so they can forge chain links, so I'm sure whoever is in charge of that would find the metal valuable. But even if I'm mistaken there, I know there are vassal houses in The Reach that would sell their souls in addition to their life savings to own a Valirie sword."

"You made it a point single out minor houses," Jon said, following Sansa down a path of clever, if not dishonest thinking. "It would be too dangerous to offer it to any of the great houses."

"Indeed - the small houses are a safer sell. They would either keep the sword for their family inheritance to give their house more prestige, or they would offer it to their Lords at an even higher price than they bought it for. They could use the money to build a bigger castle, or hire more men, or bring in more singers, or mummers. Either way, they gain more prestige with the purchase of a single sword."

"The Tyrells do not own a Valyrian sword. I'm sure they would readily purchase one," Jon said, remembering one of his conversations with Sam. "Aren't they one of the richest houses in the realm?"

"Only second to the Lannisters, I've been told."

"The Taryls have one - Heartsbane," Jon said with reverence, enjoying the way the name fell off his tongue. "It's been with them for hundreds of years. And for hundreds of years, Lords in the Reach have been offering to buy it. How much would the Tyrells pay for the one I've slain a White Walker with?" Jon pondered out loud. "Fifty thousand gold dragons? One hundred? One million?"

He thought about a fat lord hanging the sword on his wall, useless beyond vanity, while thousands of men up north got slaughtered by ice demons that were vulnerable to the sword he'd sold.

"Do you know of any vassals in The Reach?" Sansa asked, breaking him out of thought. "Through meeting them or perhaps from whispers?"

"One of my rangers was a Bulwer of Blackcrown." The substance was finally absorbing into her skin, making her flesh less slippery and more silky to the touch. "He spoke about feasts his family had with the Mullendores of the Uplands and the Tyrells."

He remembered the conversation because the ranger had spoken about the Knight of Flowers Loras Tyrell having his rosebud taken by a male servant at the feast. Jon remembered not believing the story, he rarely believed the lies his brothers told, but for some reason the sordid tale had stuck with him. "I'm pretty sure none of their houses have Valyrian swords and they would be eager to come across one. What about you?"

"I was acquainted with Elinor Tyrell when I was in the capital."

"A cousin of Queen Margery?"

"Yes, one many. Queen Margery endeared them to me. She wanted all of us to be very close friends, her shield at court. She made sure we ate brunch, lunch, and supper together- didour needle work together, and Margery even would have us sleep in her bed to whisper secrets into the night."

She giggled at this.

"I was always terribly shy and often too struck with grief to giggle with them about which knight was the most comely, or the secrets of the nobility they loved to gossip about. They didn't know the pain of war and loss like I did, they were still caught up in what the songs told them to believe about chivalry, especially Elinor.

She was engaged to Alyn Ambrose, a handsome squire that fought in the Battle of Blackwater. I do not remember where their seat is, but I do remember that their sigil is a yellow field with dozens of marching red ants, and Elinor thought it was so romantic."

She made a noise of displeasure, either at the red ants or the highborn ladies that didn't know any better, or both.  "Alyn was honored for his valor in battle and received Ellinor as his reward. It is because of Elinor's unabashed ramblings of excitement that I learned that Alyn told her House Ambrose had won several tournament purses during and before Renly's reign. Purses totaling more than three hundred thousand gold dragons."

"Alyn could have been lying to impress the impressionable lady," Jon said. "And even if he was telling the truth, it's been years since then, those purses are likely spent."

"Yes this is true, but I only spoke of them as an option, along with the Bulwers of Blackcrown, the Citadel, and the Mullendores of the Uplands. Theon Greyjoy and the Ironborn could also be potential buyers."

"The Ironborn don't buy."

"Theon is in our debt," Sansa said with a confidence Jon couldn't understand. "I trust that he wouldn't forget us."

"I wouldn't put too much trust in a Greyjoy."

"Fortunately my trust is spread thin," Sansa said. "We would have many options, and backup plans in case others fell through. A bid for the sword ought to be more than enough to get us to a free city in Essos- somewhere like Volantis or Braavos, or Myr - and we could pay for living quarters with Unsullied guards and servants. We could truly disappear somewhere inside those well guarded cities."

"You would purchase slaves?" Jon asked in disappointment. Their own father had executed men for partaking in the buying and selling of slaves, yet here his daughter was making plans to buy them for her own personal use in exotic apartments. Would their father have executed his own daughter?

"I would do what was necessary to keep us safe," she said.

Her doing what was necessary meant using a lot of people. Did Sansa Stark truly deserve to thrive at the cost of the reputations, livelihoods, and very lives of others? But if the Starks were royalty, then Sansa Stark was a princess, and the royal family was always more important than every one of their subjects. With that rationale, everyone Sansa used would have been used for the greater good. But where was the honor in that? _Honor got your father killed._

"So do you want to put this plan into action?" he asked.

"No," she answered straight away. "I was pleased to devise a plan of escape with you but I am not running away. Winterfell is my home. Yours too." His hands felt dry on her skin now, the slickness almost completely gone. "Do you want to run?"

"No," Jon said honestly, impressed with the nuance of the plan, but repulsed by the dishonor. "I want to fight for you." The words aroused him as they came out, honest and true. "I don't want to sell swords, or what's left of my soul."

His palms squeezed at the slope of her back where the top of the dress was sitting. She moaned and wiggled under his touch and each time she moved, the dress loosened around her waist. His wrist nudged against the dress, pushing it down enough to expose the split of her buttocks. She didn't seem to notice, but he quickly moved the dress back into place to cover her, and brought his hands back to her upper-back, where her scars were still a tapestry of ruin.

"I want Ramsay and every Bolton loyalist to pay for what he did to you." His dry fingers fondled at her shoulders, drawing heavy breathing from the woman he wished to restore to her seat. "I want to rescue my brother Rickon, and find Bran and Arya, and restore the Starks to their rightful position as the Lords in the North, with Sansa Stark as their Lady. That is my will," he finished as if this were a prayer, and the woman on his bed, tattered but not broken, was his goddess.

When he no longer felt a tingling of fire on his fingers, or a numbness of ice in his palms, and the dominant scent again became his musty bedchamber, he backed away and assessed her.

Nothing had changed physically, even if Jon felt transformed by the moment he'd shared with his sister. She took a deep breath and sat up on the bed, her cleavage exposed as the dress barely clung to her chest. She moved her arm to touch her back and sighed towards the blue vial sitting on the nightstand. "I guess the magic didn't work on me."

"I'm sorry, Sansa."

She gave him an easy smile, though he could see the disappointment in her blue eyes. "No worries. It's not your fault. You made me forget about the pain and that _felt good._ "  She eyed Jon, either curious at his face flushing or in deeper thought about the massage he gave her. "I'm happy that we at least tried it." She slipped her arms back into the dress and motioned for Jon to help button her up in the back. When she had put on her cloak she returned her eyes to him, full of water that she somehow was keeping from bursting free. "Even if I haven't been healed, brother. I believe you have."

She whistled for Ghost and threw the scarf around her neck before quickly moving towards the door. Jon called her by name and followed her to the door. She tried to look away, tried to hide her tears, but he wasn't going to let her run away. "You don't need magic to be beautiful, or wanted, or whole," he said, wiping tears from her cheek.

"I've accepted that I will never be beautiful, or wanted, or whole," Sansa said without any hint of self pity. "I just want to be able to sleep without tossing and turning in pain."

"You seemed to sleep peacefully the night that we spent together."

She seemed taken back by his comment, giving it time to sink in before she responded. "I was exhausted," she said, seemingly trying to convince herself of a reason why she had been so at peace in his arms. She eyed Jon and stopped fighting the truth. "You comforted me, I admit. You made me laugh and distracted me from my sores. Your embrace was soft and warm and-"

"From now on, sleep here," Jon commanded like he was still a commander. "Use the other bedchamber when you want to do your needlework or when you need privacy, but when you need rest, come here and I'll share my bed with you."

Sansa agreed to the arrangement and told Jon that she went fill in Brienne later in the day. Jon said he would come get here from the bedchamber after supper.

After she left, he sat in his room next to the fire, staring into the flames and contemplating asking Melisandre to heal his sister. He had seen the Red Woman completely heal her wound in seconds. He estimated that he had massaged Sansa for half an hour, why hadn't her back been healed even slightly? He figured he must have done something wrong, or perhaps the ointment was a facade and only a priestess of their religion could do the healing.

But there had to be something magical about the ointment that came from the unnaturally hot blue vial. He remembered how Sansa smelled the scent of blood and wine while the smell of the ointment made him think of that day in the cave, where he lost himself in a woman for the first time. He brought his scarred hand to his nose and sniffed. The faint smell of wet rock, funky fur, and pine was still there, though nowhere near as strong as when he removed the stopper.

He licked his palm and for a moment he swore he could taste Ygritte - that lovely mild flavor between her legs that drove him wild with lust as she moaned his name. But a second lick was tasteless.

He felt pathetic for craving a dead woman so much. Maybe Sansa's nose had been correct in discerning the true fragrance of the ointment and Jon's senses had been so damaged by death that they were no longer reliable. Maybe that was why the world seemed less than it was. The blacks weren't as black and whites weren't as white. His hunger and thirst didn't overwhelm him anymore, nor did food taste as fulfilling. Tormond's jokes weren't as funny. The cold wasn't as biting and the dark wasn't nearly dark enough. Everything felt smaller and less significant.

Nothing compared to the immensity of death, and the pit of nothing that awaited all that ever dared to exist.

Castle Black was colorless, even the Red Woman's redness seemed bland and lifeless. Only Sansa seemed bursting with color.

Maybe it was the thick auburn hair that tastefully framed her fair face, or the similarly colored freckles on the bridge of her nose, or the evenly placed beauty marks on her cheek and neck and shoulders. _Kissed by fire_. Or maybe it was her milky white skin and the rich blues, blacks, yellows, and reds colors that were part of her now. Or maybe it was the way she smiled, or the way she cried, or the way she yelled at him. Maybe it was that she challenged him to think in new ways.

Whatever the quality that stood out, he found himself charmed by it. Death had taken away the edge of living, dulling most aspects of life, but he found that his sister seemed to be the only thing sharp enough to cut at him, the only person left to move him, whether it was to anger, or laughs, or tears.

It was the boldness of her deep but feminine voice that stirred him most. He had never known a woman to possess such a strong yet graceful voice. He remembered when he used to walk about the halls in Winterfell and sometimes would hear her singing.

'Two Hearts As One', or the one about Jonquil and Florian, or some other song about love, chivalry, and romance. Jon liked the funny songs, so he would usually keep walking. Only when he would hear her singing 'The Mothers Hymn' did he stop to listen. Maybe it was because Jon never knew his mother but that particular song spoke to him, even if those weren't his gods.

He found comfort in the words and the optimism for peace, and when Sansa sang it, he couldn't help but bathe in the sweetness of her lovely voice. He even shed a tear once, which provoked a fight with Theon who had spied on him.

Though Sansa's voice was pretty then, there was no strength there, nothing bitter to balance the sweetness. She was but a summer child that had never known war, or winter, or the despair that inspired a cry for the Mothers mercy. The tears Jon wiped from her eyes that morning betokened the change. She deserved the Mother's mercy now, and the Father's justice too.

The low bass that now carried the sweetness of her voice wasn't just a fruit of her flowering, it was forged from pain, and loss, and the demands of womanhood. He wanted to happen across her singing now, to which he knew he would stop and listen, even if it was one of the songs he didn't care for. He wanted to hear her sing something that made her happy.

He thought about the songs she had sang for Ramsay and his jaw clenched. He heard the song in his dreams, tormenting him, giving him the same restless nights his sister complained about. He also hadn't slept peacefully since that night where she fell asleep against his chest. The symmetry seemed too true to be coincidence

They needed each other to sleep peacefully.

She needed him to fight with passion and he needed her to arouse it. Gods be damned, he found it that morning while listening to her voice, her cries, her laughs... _her moans._

"Forgive me," Jon said aloud to those he still feared might be watching despite the nothingness of death, not the gods, but his dead brother and father. He forced himself to think about the White Walkers and not freckles, pretty voices, and moans, and found himself back at Hardhome, shattering one of the demons into pieces of ice.

He wondered if the Others had a culture, an ambition beyond war with the living, a god they prayed to, a heaven or hell for their dead _, if they weren't already dead.  
_

He closed his eyes, preferring to ponder death and demons than confronting the warmness in his belly or the tension even further below. The snap and crackle of the firewood helped to ease his mind. He stepped into a field of snow, surrounded by mountains.

He was past the Wall, the familiar sense of dread confirmed it. He reached for Longclaw. He had to fight, even in his nightmares. But instead of finding chilled walking corpses and demons with icy skin and frozen blue eyes, he found himself at the mouth of a cave. She called to him and he followed her voice to the belly of the cave.

"Ygritte," he spoke at the woman standing near the pool of the hot spring. She tossed her bow to the ground. He shook his head. "You aren't real."

"Is that so?" she said while removing her boots, furs, and skins until her breast were revealed, cherry red nipples adorning each.

Jon took steps to her. "I saw you die," he said as she slid her pants down and stepped out naked. "I know I'm only dreaming."

He touched her nipple with a finger, tracing it in circles, watching it stiffen. She met his tongue with hers and ripped at his garb. _She feels real_ he thought as he kissed her lips, then neck, then nipples, and then the heat that called for him. _She tastes real too_. Ygritte straddled his naked body and eagerly took him inside. So warm and perfect. "This isn't real," he said as she rode him on the floor of the cave. But even the scents were real - wet rock, and animal fur, and hints of pine, _and her._

She bent forward and kissed his lips before whispering into his ear "You know nothing."

They kissed, and licked, and sucked, and fucked for what felt like hours, though release never overtook him. They rolled into the heated pool, kissing, and panting and thrusting. "Let's not go back," she said, looking longingly into his eyes, his hardness still deep inside. "Let's stay here awhile longer." He stared into the eyes of his dead lover and felt guilty. This was the heaven that they should have had together, the never-ending paradise of hugs and kisses. "I don't ever want to leave this cave, Jon Snow. Not ever."

He once felt the same. He kissed her lips to avoid having to tell her the truth. She smothered the heat between her thighs into his lap and asked him to stay with her forever. He closed his eyes to hide and allowed her body to consume him. She moaned "stay with me Jon," into his ear, riding him passionately, building the tension.

"You belong inside of me," she whimpered, though her voice sounded not like her voice. "Give me your seed," she begged, planting his face with desperate kisses."Oh please, Jon, give me all of you." The pleasure rose to it's peak while his heart sunk into his stomach. "Cum inside me," she sang. "Please, sweet brother. Do it, please. Do it pleeease."

Jon forced himself out of the dream. He was out of breath, and sweating, and hard as a rock. He might have relieved the tension into the fire as he had occasionally done during lonely nights but the knock at the door dissolved that thought. He composed himself for a moment and attempted to flatten the hardness of his crotch before awkwardly moving to answer the door.

He pushed the door open, halfway expecting to see the woman that had just tortured him in his sexually perverse nightmare, but instead found something nearly as scary- Tormund grinning.

The wildling laughed right in Jon's face as he looked him over. "Why do you look like you been pullin' at your pecker?" He grabbed Jon's crotch and snorted as Jon pushed his hand away. "Jon Fuckin' Snow. Here I am feelin' bad for ya, thinkin' you were moping around on your ass because of your traitor crow brothers. But it looks like you've locked yourself away to milk your little member."

Jon knew better than to take Tormund too serious. He gave the wildling a chuckle along with a punch to the shoulder.

"I hope you hit your cock harder than that," Tormund roared with laughter, loud and unashamed. "No matter, I won't tell anyone that you been hidin' here polishing your tiny sword." He gave a final hard laugh before looking at Jon seriously. "We left our women and children to ride back up here for you. But we haven't seen much of you since you received that damned letter. Enough of that. No more moping."

He eyed Jon, as if to let him know he needed Jon to be strong. "We have a fire goin' over there with some fresh meat to roast," he motioned with his head. "Come eat and drink with us, Snow."

This was the free folk's idea of a dinner invitation, lacking in elegance but bursting with honesty. He knew turning down their gesture would be impolite at at best, ungrateful at worst.

He walked with Tormund Giantsbane across the yard and treated with the men that had saved Edd, Ser Davos, and his other loyalist a certain death from Thorne. He had forgotten how loud and jovial the wildlings could be, which felt jarring since many of their friends and family had been massacred only weeks ago by monsters. But after sipping their sour goat's milk and watching them curse, and joke, and laugh, he understood this to be their way of grieving, their way of getting ready for what was to come.

They sang songs, and insulted each other in jest, and took turns cooking the meat, until the sun eventually fell behind the mountains. Dusk gave into the night sky and made the feast even more festive as the winds grew stronger, the air grew colder, the men grew drunker, and the laughs louder. The smell of charred meat, sour milk, and horse dung clung to them, but it reminded him of his time in Maynce's camp, when Ygritte was by his side, so he appreciated the atmosphere.

They asked him lots questions, some about the seven kingdoms and their customs, but mostly about what death and resurrection felt like, a question Jon was terribly tired of answering. He humored them, and listened as they gave drunken input about their different ideas of an afterlife, but Wun-Wun the giant seemed bored of the discussion too.

He stomped his foot to get everyone's attention and plopped a full head of red cabbage into his mouth. He stared down at Jon, chomping the cabbage to bits as he chewed, without any amusement in his battle-worn eyes _._ It troubled him to imagine the atrocities the giant had witnessed in his lifetime, including the mass death of his kind.

Perhaps Wun-Wun had long ago abandoned the idea of gods and heavens and hells and saw the hollow debate as useless. He pointed and spoke the old tongue, his voice husky and enormous, his hot breath providing a rancid heat that turned Jon's stomach.

"He wants to know what you plan to do about the bastard that sent you the letter threatening us," one of the wildling leaders spoke. "Especially now that you don't lead the crows."

Jon looked around at the men. They all seemed curious in his response, none more than Tormund who sat across from him biting into a roasted goats leg. He was there when Ramsay's letter arrived. He had seen the defeat on Jon's face, the reluctance in his voice. Jon was fortunate no one but Ghost had seen him crying like a baby. They appreciated strength, and Jon had been nothing but weak since his return to the living.

"I plan to retake the castle in Winterfell," Jon declared to the sworn enemies of his father, and his fathers before him. "I plan to rescue my little brother who rots away in a dungeon. I plan to restore my sister to her home and find the rest of my siblings."

"But what about us?" one of the larger men said. They called him Draymun Scarface, on the account of the dozen or so scars that lined him from brow to chin. "You swore this land would be ours to settle. We needed you to remain as the leader of the crows to make sure all promises were kept."

"The gift is your land," Jon stressed. "I'll fight to make sure that your children's children will always know this land as their own. But I won't lie to you, the North won't accept you. The Umbers have already betrayed my family on the account of me bringing you here. The Boltons have promised to slaughter you. Other northern houses will follow. This is your fight as much as it is mine."

"Jon Snow, I respect you," said a man missing teeth from his mouth, though he wore a necklace of teeth around his neck. "Your boats saved my wives and children from those...dead things. Respect is why I rode away from my family when your crow friend came to our settlement and told us you'd been murdered. But respectfully, I have to say it looks like you brought us here to be your army to save your fucking castle. Were these lands bait? To give us a home to fight for, for our children, when we're truly fighting for your home?"

The muttering from the sobering men drowned out the even voice Jon was attempting to speak with.

He lifted his hands to calm them. "I hear you, I hear you," he projected loud and clear. "I know you will always be weary of us southerners trying to use you. But truly If I wanted to use you, I would have when Stannis gave me the opportunity. He offered me the chance to shed my bastard name and become an official Stark. I would have been able to leave the Night's Watch and take a wife, and father children, and inherit lands. The only condition would have been to rally the free folk to Stannis' cause. But I rejected his offer. His war was not your war."

In hindsight, had Stannis won, the free folk would not have been in this predicament, but he knew not to argue that with them. He had to be more clever than that. "I tied my fate to yours the second I decided to bring you here. We can quibble about whose war belongs to who, whose home we are actually fighting for, but the way I see it - as long as Ramsay Bolton is Warden of the North, you will never be safe, your women and children will never be safe, and neither will I. We need each other to survive."

Tormund was the first of them to give a nod of approval, but the rest of them followed in agreement, even the man that had shown doubt to Jon's intentions.

"We'll still have to convince the elders and chieftain of the other clans," Tormund said. "Most of them won't believe your claims of death. They are grateful that you helped them flee from the White Walkers but will struggle to follow you into a war with the living. I can already see Dim Dalba giving you a hard time about it." The orange-haired wildling stood up and pounded his chest before airing out the sourness of his belly. "We're a nasty stubborn bunch, Jon Snow. It took years to unite us behind Maynce Rayder. You better hope the rest of em are quicker than that to follow a dead man."

Someone handed Jon a flagon of ale while another patted him on the shoulder which returned the laughs and chatter to the gathering. A voice from the crowd even asked Jon if his manhood still worked the same after death. Tormund answered for him, claiming that he saw for himself that it still worked, sparking roars of laughter. One of them joked that they would need to get Jon a woman before they went to battle, now that he was free from his stupid vows. He must not have known about Ygritte.

"If you had any charm about you, then that witch would be yours," Tormund smirked his way. "I see the way she looks at your pretty face."

"She's a religious woman," Jon smiled, daring not to mention the time she had straddled him with her perky breast out and ready to be sucked. "Completely dedicated to her god."

"She wants to fuck you silly," Tormund barked with indignation. "And you would be silly for not giving her what she wants."

"And any woman that looks that hard at ya will let you have her in any hole," Draymun laughed along with Tormund who agreed by calling her one of the exotic women from Essos.

"You speak of looking hard," Jon grinned at Tormund, wanting to shift attention from him. "But you can't stop staring at Lady Brienne. If you had any charms about you, perhaps she would throw a look back at you."

The men hollered and toasted their drinks while Tormund grinned at their laughs, amused but not embarrassed. "She's given me more than a few looks."

"Mortified looks," a younger wilding laughed, though Jon couldn't remember his name.

"She should be afraid," Tormund smiled though his teeth. "The things I would do to her if I ever got that armor off. She wouldn't be able to walk right for a fortnight."

"Is that how you plan to win her over," Jon shook his head with an irritated laugh. "Southern women don't want to hear about how big your pecker is or how they wouldn't be able to walk after a night with you."

"How would you know what they want?" Tormund asked. "You've never even been with a southern woman."

"And I'm still better with women than you," Jon smiled.

Within seconds, the gathering turned into a frenzy of horny men arguing with each other about how to charm women, though most of what Jon heard sounded less like charming, and more like abduction. He'd grown used to their cultural understanding of courtship, but he wasn't prepared to hear any of them bringing his sister into it.

"I hope all southern women are as pretty as the red-head girl with the wolf at her side," the younger wildling said with a cheeky smile to one of his friends. "She's the only southerner I'd bow to."

"You're speakin' of Jon's sister, Sragard," Tormund said unsmiling.

"I know," the youth said with drunken enthusiasm before he looked back at the other wildlings, who weren't laughing now. Still, he didn't get the hint. "Red heads are kissed by fire and I've always heard they have the warmest cunts."

Before Jon could even react Tormund had punched Sragard in the face, sending the boy crumbling to the ground. Within seconds, the snow beneath the youth was drenched crimson.

"Show some fuckin' respect, you ass," Tormund spoke. "Snow saves your life and you make jokes about taking his sister?"

"I wasn't talking about raping her," he mumbled. His drunkenness had clearly gotten the better of him. "I just thought she was pretty."

Jon stood and unsheathed Longclaw. "I suggest you keep those thoughts buried next time," he said, his steel sharp and ready to slice anyone that dared to speak. Tormund stood by Jon's side, in concord with the threat of the sword that Jon pointed. Sragard Brokenose scooted away in terror as the others watched on. "This applies to the rest of you. Hear me well for there will not be a second warning." He looked at each of them in their eyes. "We're friends when we drink together. And allies on the battlefield. But if you have any inkling to express interest toward my sister, step forward now and consider me your enemy."

When no one stepped forward, Jon dropped Longclaw back into his scabbard and marched away, a fire raging through him that he didn't know still burned. Tormund followed Jon across the court yard, apologizing and promising that Jon wouldn't have to worry about his sisters safety, not from them.

"The boy was just being drunk and stupid," Tormund stressed. "He lost his parents at Hardhome and came here to fight because he does admire what you did for us. He's a good fighter, good kid, but he probably drunk so much because he is in grief and in need of a woman to fuck. But he knows to stay in line."

Jon looked deeply into his friends eyes. "That isn't an excuse, Tormund. She's my sister. I don't care about his grief or his drunkenness or his need to be fucked. I'll fuck him with the tip of my sword if I see him within a hundred feet of her."

"I understand," Tormund nodded with a heavy breath. "I'll send him and the others back to the settlement so they can be with their families until we move out. I'll stay with only my most trusted men."

Jon gave him a thankful nod and left to go see about his sister. His heart didn't feel at peace until he saw her doing needlework at the table inside her bedchamber.

He spoke briefly with Podrick and Lady Brienne, though Brienne was short and flat with him. He explained that Sansa was having trouble sleeping alone, but Brienne interrupted, saying "Lady Sansa has filled me in on the reason she wishes to sleep in your room." He thought to confront Brienne about what he perceived was hostility, but decided against it. He was still too vexed over his outburst with the wildlings to properly assess the Knight's demeanor towards him. 

He did broach the subject with his sister as they walked with Ghost across the yard. "Lady Brienne doesn't seem to like me."

"It's not about liking you," Sansa said, pushing white smoke in front of her face. "She doesn't fully trust you."

He waited until they had passed three black brothers carrying logs before he spoke, his voice hushed. "Why wouldn't she trust me?"

She smiled softly at her brother and took him by the hand as they strode. He helped her up the stairs and opened the door. Only after she had walked over to the fire and removed her cloak did she answer his question. "Trust is earned, Jon." She stuck out her hands to the fire and rubbed them together. "Sharing some of my blood isn't enough for her. She already has lost others that she was sworn to protect with her life. She has to be the eyes in the back of my head and doubt where I believe."

"What is there to doubt about me?" he asked as he met her by the fire with his cloak removed.

"From her perspective, you are the man that abruptly brought wildlings south of the wall. She might not hate them as much as northerners, but she is well aware of their reputation. But what gives her most pause is your relationship with the witch and smuggler. You stand in the way of her getting the justice she feels she deserves for what they did to the usurper Renly." She smiled a little. "She would be up in arms if she ever heard me refer to Renly as a usurper."

"But he was. He had no right to the throne. He was no rightful king."

"He was _her_ rightful king," Sansa said before turning and walking to the bed and taking a seat. "Before we got here I told her that me and you weren't very close growing up. I believe she took that to heart," she said, removing her boots. "A few days of friendly conversation won't convince her that I'm as safe with you as I am with her."

She slid into the bed and underneath the covers, but not before Jon noticed the sores on her soles and the damage of her toes. He wondered how she was managing to walk with such composure. When she had settled, he took a seat on the other side of the bed and removed his own boots and socks.

"Any progress on your new dress?" Jon asked.

"It's coming along well," she said, looking up at him with an easy smile as he carefully moved into the bed with her, leaving a gap between them.

"I've always fancied bright and colorful, but the material you brought me leaves me no choice but fashion my gown into something dark. But I refuse to settle for a black dress. I'm not hiding nor in mourning. So Stark colors it shall be. I faded the color of the black rags as best I could and have dyed the other material. Tomorrow I will start on measuring and cutting and perhaps embroidery. But I'm happy to say that I have been able to work with my fingers without any struggle."

"I'm pleased to hear that."

"I may take another few days before I am satisfied with it but the sooner, the better so I can be out of this itchy thing," she whined with a scratch to her arm. "I'm going to pad the dress with some silk, satin, and fur so my skin is comfortable and cool as well as warm."

"I imagine that should help you sleep better," Jon said, looking over her face.

"I would actually prefer not to sleep with a dress at all," she smirked, scratching at her body. "That was how I slept as a child and in King's Landing before I wed Lord Tyrion." She moved side to side and let out an irritated sigh, unable to find a position of comfort. "Why so much room between us? I slept on your chest the last time you allowed me in your bed."

_That was before I dreamed of being inside you._

Jon swallowed his guilt and lifted the furs. She scooted into his open arms and snuggled against his chest until she was warm and cozy, the furs wrapped snug around them. He spontaneously ran his hand through her thick but fine hair as her face nestled against his chest. He could feel his heart beating quickly as if he had a reason to be out of breath, or excited, or nervous.

"Thank you Jon," she said just above a whisper.

He continued brushing his damaged hand against her auburn fire, warm and comforting. "What are you thanking me for?"

"For today." She looked up at him, her blue eyes narrowed. "And yesterday. And every day that I've been here. You kept your promise and bathed for me, even after I said those awful things about your death. You forgave me and massaged my scars and made me _feel_ _really good."_ She grinned then, moving enough for a slice of her hair to fall over her eyes. "I also enjoyed planning our escape into the free cities. You were truly clever. I like clever."

"Not clever enough," Jon disputed. He had never been one to comfortably accept utter praise. And he had subconsciously thought about his conversation with her all day, replaying every moment. "The free cities are too populated with Westerosi for us to ever truly disappear. There is too much trading, too many highborn lords and ladies traveling to see the world outside of their strongholds, too many spy networks. As soon as rumors spread of a direwolf roaming the city, we would be targets, and I doubt slave guards would be enough to protect us."

"You make a strong case against the free cities. So I guess it's back to the boring Quiet Isles."

"The world is bigger than Westeros and Essos. There are places out there most known for their lovely summers and remote locations."

"The Summer Isles," Sansa smirked. "I'm not sure why I never thought about those islands."

"The same reason we would be safer there than in the free cities. We're quicker to consider what's most familiar or comfortable. Most people in the free cities speak the common tongue so at least the language barrier isn't as jarring as it is elsewhere. It's why the Westorosi intending to flee all flee to same goddamned places," he laughed at the laziness.

"They never consider Yi Ti, or the grasslands of the Dothraki, or the other countless islands we never learn the names to. I learned north of the Wall that while our cultures are different, we're all the same, really. We eat, and bleed, and sleep, and love. I'm sure it would be the same with the people that speak the Summer Tongue. Learning an unfamiliar language might be daunting but if we truly intended to flee, safety should be top priority. What's safer than a place no one even considers?"

"I've always been curious about the Summer Isles and their ebony skinned people," Sansa confessed. "The Hound said I reminded him of one of the pretty birds from the islands. The birds talk there," she said with an innocent enthusiasm that made him smile.

"I saw Islander Lords arrive to the capital in their famous swan ships, and come to court wearing green, and yellow, and blue capes of feathers. A cousin of Queen Margery told me that a widowed wife of a gold cloak had paid a thousand gold dragons to bring three of them to her home for a mission."

"A mission?" Jon asked, baffled.

"That's the same thing I wondered. But those girls were always whispering secrets and giggling. At some point I stopped trying to understand the nuance to all of their laughs and tales, since I was convinced most of it was wind." She smiled sheepishly and averted her eyes from his just a little.

"Lord Baelish later told me that the mission involved the lady widow...trying to fill the void in her heart with ebony love. He said the Summer Islanders were distinguished lovers. Exotic tasting and the men well endowed. According to him, lovemaking was as much of an art to their islands as combat was to Westeros, reason enough for him to employ several beauties from the islands. He said they were among his best investments."

"I see," Jon said softly. He hated whenever she mentioned the man that sold her. Jon expected his name to spice her tongue at every mention, but she scarcely seemed bothered whenever she found herself mentioning her encounters with him.

He wished for her to forget him, to throw away his teachings, and discard each of his lessons. But he knew it absurd, especially when so much of what he said had a likeness of truth to it. "I've overheard comments over the years about their lovemaking. They have temples dedicated to it."

"And I'm sure if we fled there, you would be a quick convert to worship at their altars," Sansa sneered. The laugh out of his chest felt good. He tried to laugh away from her face so she wouldn't smell his breath stinking of sour goats milk and ale, but if she smelled it she didn't complain, only snuggled closer.

When they had emptied their guts of laughs, a comforting song of crackling fire and soft breathing eased him into her embrace. His heart felt swelled with pride, to be the one she needed to find a restful sleep, to be the one she trusted with her deepest scars, and most humiliating secrets. He smiled to himself and held her even tighter.

He was on the verge of falling into a slumber when she interrupted with her sweet voice, saying "Jon, tell me about her."

"About who?" he asked, opening his eyes to meet hers. They were bold, and blue, and interested.

"The wildling woman you loved. _Ygritte_. "

"Where did you hear that?" he asked as he nearly choked on his heart.

"You _told_ _me_ ," she said softly, lacking any of the aggression he'd had in his panic. "This morning, don't you remember? You told me you've only loved one woman and she was a wildling."

"Oh." The conversation came back to him. He'd mentioned his lover while trying to explain the failed seduction of the Red Woman. He hadn't meant to introduce his sister to Ygritte. She was dead and gone, her killer was dead and gone, but her haunting presence lingered. "I met her while ranging beyond the Wall. She was a part of Maynce Rayder's army. She was killed when the army attacked Castle Black." He thought that was sufficient, a beginning, middle, and end to her.

"No, I don't mean that. I want to know _about her_. What was she like?"

"What was she like?" he repeated, lost for words.

"Yes, was she funny? Smart?"

"Different," was the word that fell out of his mouth, clumsy but sincere. "Funny and smart yes but a different kind of funny and smart. She wasn't like Jeyne or Beth Cassell or any of the the ladies in Winterfell. I hesitate to even call her a lady."

He thought about the time he'd tried explaining to Ygritte what fainting meant and used the example of ladies that fainted at the sight of blood. She'd mocked his example, and the frailty of the ladies in the south. Jon looked over his sister, and remembered that Sansa told him to expand his understanding of a lady. He decided he wouldn't twice disparage true ladies like his sister to pay tribute to women like Ygritte.

"She was born a wildling and acted as a wildling. She loved being free. Loved the outdoors, loved hunting with her bow, fighting and killing her enemies, venturing into haunted forests and bat-filled caves. She was proud and brave. She even climbed the Wall. She was afraid as any sane person would be, but did it anyway because fear was wind. She felt it but it wasn't enough to push her where it blew. That's what she was like."

"Not too different from Arya," his sister said with a grin that slightly offended him. "What did she look like? I've always thought of wildlings as dirty and ugly brutes. I guess I've thought of wilding women the same way. But for one of them to capture your heart - it betrays my imagination. So she behaved differently than most ladies. Did she _look different_ too?"

"She had red hair," Jon said with a little grin as he tossed a strand of hers. "It wasn't as soft or fine as yours. She didn't brush it so when it wasn't braided or pulled back, it was a tangled mess that smelled like animals instead of perfume. But it fit her freckled face." He took a long breath to reflect on her features. Death had dulled some of them in his head, which troubled him, but speaking aloud about her helped him remember.

"She had greyish blue eyes." He chuckled at his memory. "They looked funny because they were too far wide on her skinny face. Everything about her was skinny, skinny arms, skinny legs, skinny waist." He caught himself laughing fondly and stopped to glance down at his sister who still looked curious, listening intently. "She had thin lips. Big crooked teeth. And a constant smirk about her face."

"Sounds different," Sansa said with a kind smile, though he could tell his description did little to dispel her inclination to think of free folk as ugly.

"Aye - different. And beautiful," Jon said proudly. He was happy that he gotten a chance to talk truthfully about her to someone that cared enough to listen.

It illustrated his loneliness.

His sister's smile faded as her bottom lip curled into her mouth. She bit down softly for a moment before clearing her throat. "So did you have her?"

He suddenly had a thirst for water. He didn't know if little sisters were supposed to ask their brothers questions like that - and if they did, if brothers were supposed to answer them.

He might have once expected Arya to embarrass him with questions regarding his chastity but the Sansa he knew would have thought the question too rude. He could imagine himself laughing Arya's question away and ultimately letting it go unanswered, but for some odd reason he desired for Sansa to know the truth.

"Aye," he confessed as he felt sweat gathering in his brow.

She moved against his chest so she could see him more clearly. "Once?"

"Many times." He couldn't help but think of the many times; in tents, behind trees, by the crackling of fire and the crunch of fresh snow, covered in smelly furs with men feet away from them, near the shadows in the light of day and under the shining light of the stars and moon. The lusty thoughts stirred him against his will. He moved his body slightly away from hers to hide his tension.

"She must have been a very lovely woman," Sansa said, oblivious to his state as she scooted close to him again. "To make you betray your vows - many times."

He moved a hand to his crotch to hide himself from her. "Lovely, indeed."

"Were there others?"

"No. Just Ygritte. Only Ygritte."

"But surely there were others before her," she pressed, her eyes narrowed.

"There weren't," he assured her.

She pondered his answer for a moment, as if discerning the direction she wanted to go. "Not that I doubt you, but I once overheard the barber Tommy say he saw you and Theon at an Inn outside of Winterfell. It was well known that Theon visited the winter town for whores. The implication was that you went with him for the same thing."

"Aye - I did. But nothing happened." He turned to lay on his shoulder, keeping his arm between them. "Theon was incessant about me becoming a man. He knew of this new young woman in the town named Ros. She was so beautiful that she only gave her time to highborn and nobles. Theon visited her and declared her fit for me. So I saved my coins and paid for her time but I left that Inn a virgin. Still a boy."

"If you paid for...her time, why didn't you spend any time in her bed?" his sister asked, her intrigue about him still so queer.

"Because if I gave her a child, it's name would be Snow." He moved a strand of her hair to the back of her ears and stared hard into her soft, curious eyes. "Ross wasn't mine to have and I didn't love her. I only want to be with a woman that I love, a woman I want to be the mother of my children, a woman I want to call my wife."

"Is that why you rejected the Red Woman?"

"Yes. Melisandre offered herself to me, naked, beautiful, and I wanted to feel the warmth of a woman again. But I refused. She isn't mine. I do not love her. I would not want to share my seed with her. I would not want to call her my wife. If I won't wed her, then on principle, I will not bed her. That way there is no chance of bringing a bastard into the world that will have to feel the shame and loneliness that I have."

Jon stroked at Sansa's hair before her eyes grew wide with surprise.

"Jon!" she shouted, popping up in bed and pointing. "Your hand!"

Worried, he shot a look to his damaged hand only to see that it was no longer damaged.

"It's healed!" she hollered. "The witch's magic worked!"


	6. Sansa III

**Sansa III**

The cold morning wind blew against a flushed and delighted smile, frozen on her face. Though she slept little that night, she felt well rested and ready for the day. That kind of hope had been long dormant inside her heart. But now hope shared a seat at the table with her gratitude for Jon Snow. 

"You seem especially cheerful this morning," Brienne assessed accurately. She hadn't been this happy since her Lord father Eddark Stark had agreed to let her marry Prince Joffrey. Even her regret over those events couldn't ruin the magic of the day. She had Brienne untie the back of her dress so she could see for herself. "M'lady. Your scars..."

They were washed away like dirt, at least the ones on her back and shoulders. The damage done to her chest, and belly, and feet remained. But Jon too had promised that he would soon heal those. She would have to confront the pain and shame in her innermost places herself.

Sansa filled in the details for her Lady Knight and watched as she hesitated to accept Melisandre's ointment as a benefit to them. As much as she distrusted the Red Woman and her influence, how could she tell Sansa not to use whatever means available to her to restore her comfort and beauty?

Brienne had no choice but to place her hatred aside for the moment and stare in awe. And soon, Sansa relished, she would be beautiful, and wanted, and whole again. And Ramsay would see the woman he thought shattered and quiver in disbelief at her resurrection. She would make him suffer, surely. A clean death by hanging or beheading was too good for him. Drowning him with her piss was too good for him. His distress would be hers to savor. He would suffer past his breaking point and cry tears, and please her with his songs of pain and humiliation.

A Lady wasn't supposed to please herself with such thoughts. For that she kept them to herself, smiling as she measured, and pinned, and cut fabric with shear, imagining cutting her dear husband, humming tunes to her favorite songs.

"That tune," Brienne cut in after silently watching Sansa craft for an hour or so. "I've heard it before."

"Six Maids in a Pool," Sansa smiled as she pushed a needle into a strap of leather _. I'll poke Ramsay's hole like this,_ she thought as she wiggled the needle around to make the hole wider. "It's about Ser Florian and-"

"And the maiden Jonquil. You know so many songs, many that I've likely heard but forgotten. But I remember that one well." There was a hint of longing to her voice. "It was sung to me when I was a young girl. I remember liking it, the tune was catchy, but the story itself was odd. Spying on naked maids, and stolen buds, and blood-stained grass. I never quite understood why people found it so romantic and chivalrous, for I found myself feeling sorry for Jonquil. I certainly never desired to take her place in the story. If that was love, then I preferred not to experience it." She gave a shrug and gave a stray look towards the window. "I last heard the song when I was with Ser Jaime, as we passed through Maidenpool."

"You've been to Maidenpool?" Sansa asked with a smile, looking up from her work.

"Aye. When I was escorting Jaime to the capital to exchange him for you and your sister."

"I've always wanted to bathe in their famous blue pools," Sansa said. "Did you stop to take a dip?"

"No," she answered without hesitation. "The Riverlands were torn by war and infested with bandits. The town of Maidenpool had been sacked and burned several times over by the time I arrived." The sadness of her face made Sansa feel stupid for asking such a silly question about bathing, when they were at war. But suddenly, her knight looked at her and smiled. "Jaime and I didn't get to bathe until weeks after our capture."

Sansa found the smile queer, considering it came as she mentioned her capture. "This is when the Kingslayer lost his sword hand, yes?"

"It is," she said sadly. "I watched as it happened, helpless, chained and tied to the trunk of a tree. Jaime was made to ride with the rotten hand around his neck, all the way to Harrenhal."

"That's revolting." Sansa had no pity for the Kingslayers maiming, and she couldn't really understand why Brienne was so shaken. She remembered being curious when Jaime arrived back in King's Landing wearing a golden hand. There were several stories floating around. One of Margery's handmaidens told her that Robb's wolf Greywind had bitten Jaimie's hand off, and Sansa remembered liking that story best. "Might I ask, who carried the deed of severing the Kingslayers hand?"

"A hunter named Locke." The name tumbled out of her mouth bitterly, as if she still held deep resentment towards this man for reasons other than capture. "He was in service to the Boltons. Fitting, for he also enjoyed to torture and humiliate his hostages."

"Brienne," said Sansa, feeling guilty for never considering the horrors her knight had faced in her mission to free the girls. Knightly missions weren't like the songs, full of pious battle and triumph for the honorable. The real world killed the honorable and humiliated the pious. Brienne remained alive, but Sansa feared that she had been defiled. "Did your captors harm you?"

"I was beaten," she answered softly. Brienne wasn't a great beauty but she was a woman, and in that moment all of her feminine features stood out above the rest, as she understood implicitly what Sansa was asking. "They wanted to violate me. Threatened me with it day and night. I couldn't understand why they wanted to have someone they kept calling ugly and mannish. But it wasn't about enjoying me, it was about ruining me in my fathers eyes, tarnishing my reputation, poisoning my pride. They would have succeeded had it not been for Ser Jaime. He convinced them to leave me intact, to his detriment."

Sansa finally understood. To spare her maidenhead, they took his hand - and likely received the same perverse pleasure from the bloody action. This was what war did to people, made her feel sorry for men she thought irredeemable.

"This is why you speak fondly of Jaime Lannister," Sansa said softly, giving him the respect of a name beyond Kingslaying.

"He may not seem it, M'lady, for he has done many wicked things but Jaime at his core is a good man."

She couldn't help but think of the night of battle in King's Landing, when Queen Cersei had drunkenly mentioned her and Jaime dressing up in each others garments as children. She seemed to love him so much. "Is it true that he beds Cersei? That Joffrey, and Tommen, and Myrcella are their bastards born of incest?"

"The heart wants what it wants," she spoke as if her own heart was tied to the answer. "Sometimes we love what we shouldn't. Sometimes we love what we'll never have. Sometimes we love what's forbidden. I confess, incest does has a rotten smell to it, but the Targaryens unified seven kingdoms through wedding and bedding of brother and sister."

"They unified the seven kingdoms with fire and blood," Sansa retorted. She remembered her studies well enough. The dragons defined Aegon's Conquest. The dragons were the reason her ancestor Torrhen Stark would forever be known as The King Who Knelt.

"Aegon couldn't have done it alone, even with the dragons," Brienne said. "He needed his sisters queens - Visenya and Rhaenys. It was their distrust of outsiders that made them so strong. Their castles weren't impregnable, but their unity was. Through duty and desire and dragonfire they forged the realm they wanted."

"And gave us Mad Kings and Queens." She never thought she would have heard Brienne defending incest, but perhaps her heart had been so tied to the Kingslayer, she could no longer speak neutrally about his sins. No matter, she could understand Brienne's loyalty to the man that had chivalrously protected her virtue; and moreover it mattered little to her what Cersei and Jaime did, as long as they did it south and never ventured north again. "But I suppose you are right that their pure blood lines did aid them in ruling over the disparate kingdoms for generations."

"And I suppose you are right that incest does lead to madness."

"It would explain Joff's cruelty," Sansa said. It occurred to her that if incest gave Joffrey his cruelty, then why was Tommen so gentle and Myrcella so sweet? Ramsay wasn't born from brother and sister, yet he was the cruelest man she knew. The subject was confusing and made her think about Jon rubbing the ointment all over her back and shoulders. _It felt so good._ Perhaps too good to be considered innocent. 

"Your dress is going to look really lovely," Brienne said, interrupting her confusion.

Sansa nodded with a friendly smile. "Would you like me to make you a dress, or coat, or anything? I have more than enough material."

"I appreciate the offer but I must kindly decline," she said politely. "For now, my sweater, doublet, armor and sword are all I need in my role."

"It's certainly impressive armor. And it fits you so well." She vaguely recalled discussing Jaime with Brienne as they traveled to the wall. Brienne might have mentioned something about Jaime giving her armor to help find the sisters. But the long, cold days and nights had consumed much of her thinking, so it was hard to remember any particular conversation vividly. "Jaime gifted the armor to you, right?"

"Yes he did." She noticed Brienne's hand move to the hilt of the sword.

"The sword too?" Sansa stared at the hilt and scabbard - glistening Lannister gold.

Her lady knight nodded. "He wanted me to have the best to find you and fulfill the oaths we made to your mother."

"Now we just have to find Arya."

She was going to ask Brienne about the man Arya had been traveling with but Podrick came barging into the room with a grin on his face and crossbow in his hands.

"What in seven hells do you plan to do with that thing?" Brienne asked.

Sansa laughed and suddenly she had forgotten to inquire further about her sister as the three of them shared a hearty chuckle. Pod informed them that one of the black brothers had allowed him to 'borrow" a crossbow from the armory to practice his shooting - only no one was around to help him practice.

"Go on and help him," Sansa grinned as she went back to cutting the material.

"Are you sure M'lady? We were having a really nice conversation until we were rudely interrupted," Brienne looked over at her squire.

"Oh, .....d....did I interrupt?" Podrick Payne stuttered remorsefully. "Seven hells, I did, didn't I? I apologize m'ladies. I was just so excited. I should have knocked." He turned to leave.

"Podrick, you're fine," Sansa smiled before looking over at Brienne. "Lady Brienne will assist you with your combat training. I'll work a little while longer and then come out to watch. I'm sure it shall be amusing."

"Come on you," Brienne said with a little grin as she stood up. "And don't point that thing anywhere near me," she said as they were walking to the door. She turned to Sansa and said "We'll just be out in the yard if you need us."

"No worries, Ghost will protect me," Sansa smiled, as the direwolf lifted his head from slumber.

Sansa went back to work on her dress with a smile on her face, but try as she might to escape it, her mind kept wandering back to the confusing feelings she had over Jon's massage. The sensation of his hands at the curve of her back, at her hips, at the nape of her neck, and around the blade of her shoulders - it all had given her such intense feelings of pleasure. 

She was looking forward to him massaging the rest of her. She had every reason to ask him to help with her back, as she truly could not reach those areas, but she was flexible enough to spread the ointment into her own toes, and chest, and tummy.

So why was she still desiring him to be the one to massage her? Was it for healing or because it _felt so good?_ Was the very desire of having him massage her incestuous? Or could she still maintain the medical treatment as innocent?

The knock at the door broke her thought. "Yes?" she asked, as she slipped needle and thread through a hole.

She thought it might be Podrick or Jon but turned her head quickly when she heard a different voice saying "For you, my lady."

It was the letter-carrier Arron, the same black brother that had handed Jon the threatening letter from Ramsay. Her stomach felt heavy and her head light as she took the letter from him and saw Littlefinger's wax seal. She stared at it for several moments. What she felt couldn't be described as fear, or rage, or excitement, but it somehow felt like all three. She anxiously snapped the seal with her fingers and unrolled the paper.

 

_LADY SANSA,_

_I pray this message reaches you._

_I pray you are in good strength of mind and body._

_I pray that you have a horse and free rein to ride._

_I am camped at MOLE's TOWN, right outside CASTLE BLACK._

_I pray to see you soon._

 

The letter was left unsigned, though she didn't need his signature to recognize his manuscript and hear his voice in the words. _All lies,_ she thought as she scanned the words again. _He never prays._ Still, she found herself drawn to his last prayer.

"How far is Mole's Town?" she asked Arron, who remained at attention.

"Around half-a-league, my lady," he said, looking upon her carefully. He must have took her thoughtful silence for an ignorance of distance. "My apologies, it's nearly two miles south of here. Not even half-a-days ride."

"Yes, thank you," she said, her mind far ahead of that fact. Petyr hadn't signed because he must not have wanted Jon to know. _Or maybe this is a trick, and the letter is not authentic, maybe this is from Ramsay_ she thought as she examined the broken seal piece. _No, these are Petyr's words. He is only protecting himself in case the message wound up in her brothers possession._

She turned and looked at Arron. She liked the healthy respect he seemed to have for his superiors. Lack of manners and courtesies were more apparent in Castle Black than anywhere else she visited, even Winterfell when it was occupied by the Boltons. The Boltons still called her ma'am and Lady and bowed before her. The Night's Watch were a different breed. But Arron had manners and she could work with that.

"Do you handle all incoming letters and ravens?" she asked.

He nodded once. "Yes my lady. For now until we receive a new maester. I'm one of the few remaining stewards that is trained in tending to ravens."

"Do you share those duties with anyone?"

"My brother Emrick," he said with a hint of a smile. "We're twins. He was assigned to be a ranger but with how short-manned we are, our positions are merely titles. We do whatever we have to do to keep this place running. There haven't been many letters since Stannis departed. The ones we do receive are usually complaints of wildlings."

"Do you and your brother inform the Lord Commander of every letter you receive?" she asked. "Even if it's delivered to someone else?"

"Yes, it's part of the Lord Commander's duty to know who is sending messages," Arron said. He seemed happy that she seemed interested in talking with him. But Sansa had only become interested because her predicament necessitated interest.

"Where are you from, Arron?" she asked sweetly, as if she truly cared.

"The Fair Isle," he smiled, more comfortable now as he rubbed his hands together. "It's a small island in the Sunset Sea."

"You're from the Westerlands, then," she said as she stood up, which got Ghost's attention.

"Yes, my lady," he said as he backed up a little, his eyes wide and aware of the beast at her side.

His fear made her feel comfortable in knowing nothing would happen while they were alone that she wouldn't will to happen.

"Down boy," she told the direwolf before turning back to look closely at the man. He was well-fed, which indicated to her that he was not as lowly born as some of the black brothers. He had a round but fair face and neatly trimmed beard, which told her he cared about his appearance, even at a place like this. He also must have been literate, to be handling letters, which spoke to an education, and at least some wits. She briefly considered asking why he had taken the black, but decided she preferred not to know of his crimes. "He won't hurt you."

"Yes, I know. I just have never seen a wolf so large. Lord Commander Snow introduced him to me the first day I arrived here a few years ago, and he's only gotten bigger since."

"Jon is no longer Lord Commander," Sansa told him, noting again that the crows hadn't seemed to accept Jon's resignation. "Eddison Tollett is your Commander, now." He sighed with a nod. She took a small step towards him. "Are you going to report to your Lord Commander that I received a letter?"

He seemed confused by her question. "Yes, my lady."

She couldn't let Jon find out about Littlefinger.  She desperately needed to confront Littlefinger herself, without Jon's interference or insistence upon doing things his way - the honorable way.

She gave Arron a warm smile. "I would prefer if you kept it between us."

"Even if I wanted to my lady, the other brothers saw a message carrier arrive at the gates. They know we received a letter today, and word will reach Lord Commander...Edd, as well as your brother."

"I have blank paper and pen here," Sansa said, her voice perked and pretty as she moved gracefully to the desk. "Perhaps a letter came from a lowly northern house complaining of wildlings on their lands."

"Are you suggesting I forge a letter, my lady?" he asked, afronted.

Sansa moved towards him carefully. She was taking a risk of offending him, but she knew that honor was not what the crows were currently known for. She gently pulled his wrist away from his chest and watched him inhale deeply. She didn't have a perfume to captivate him but she'd had a bath recently. She pulled at one of his gloved hands and removed the poorly made thing.

She opened his closed fist and placed her palm against his to measure his fingers. "Gods, Arron. Your hands are massive," she lied. The Hound had massive hands. But the nervous laughter from his mouth made the lie worth it.

Being south with the ladies at court had taught Sansa that a little sweetness could gain favor with lonely men. She had previously noted his tattered gloves when he spoke about his homeland - a clever lady would exploit that observation.

"You should have a new pair of gloves - something with soft satin," she said, softly touching his bare fingers with hers. "I can make you a pair if you'd like. But you couldn't tell anybody for everyone would want me to make them a pair of gloves. It will just be our secret - my gloves for you, your little fib for me. "

Moisture fell down his face as she stared at him.It looked like he was melting. When he finally exhaled, he looked exhausted. "I'll keep your secret for you, my lady."

She gave his hand a firm squeeze and watched his face brighten red.

She'd spent her youth practicing several styles of handwriting, a skill suddenly made useful as she wrote a letter from House Forrester. Arron watched in silence as Sansa carefully signed Elissa Forrester at the bottom of the paper. She figured if Edd or Jon ever saw the letter, they would be too busy with the disarray of Castle Black to ever write back, or pay a second thought to one in many complaints. She rolled the paper and handed it to him with a sweet smile. "Thank you again, Arron. I will not forget your kindness."

"My pleasure Lady Sansa," he said with a clumsy bow before awkwardly walking out of the room with the inauthentic letter under his arms.

The smitten look to his face was the same look Queen Margery triggered when she spoke sweetly to the guards and Lords of the Red Keep. Even Cersei could leave men stumbling about after letting them get a whiff of her golden hair.

It was an underappreciated power that Sansa knew could control a kingdom - the cunning queens often did behind the scenes. Margery had even managed to tame Joffrey. He never threatened or humiliated her like he did when Sansa was promised to him. She could never picture Joffrey aiming a crossbow at her and having her stripped before the court. She was truly queenly, while Sansa had only been a pale imitation of one.

If Sansa was going to play the game like the queens did, she needed to be capable of bending men with duties to her will. Getting Arron to do her bidding seemed like a good start.

After gathering her cloak and Littlefinger's letter she left the room with Ghost and walked to the courtyard. She presented Brienne with the letter and within minutes, the three of them had gathered horses and left for Mole's Town, with the stated intention of gathering women's supplies for the lady.

The ride wasn't very long, just as Arron said. However the itch between her thighs, where her sore and raw legs rubbed against each other, still made the trek painfully arduous. She felt something pop at her rear at some point in the gallop. She was near tears when they finally came upon the ruins of the town that had been sacked by wildlings. She quickly wiped them away, refusing to let anybody mistake her tears for weakness.

Brienne ordered Podrick to stay on the skirts of the town with Ghost to watch the perimeter for an ambush. "If you notice anything suspicious, send in the direwolf," she said to her attentive squire. "I'm counting on you, Podrick. Keep your eyes open and be ready to fight."

"Yes, m'lady."

The ladies departed down the hill and into the village, trotting along, carefully surveying the abandoned town, coated in snow and ice. It didn't take long for them to find fresh horse tracks in the snow. Sansa and Brienne looked at each other for a moment before following the tracks deeper in the village until they arrived at a shack. A white horse stood tied next to the broken doorway.

"Would he truly be here alone?" Brienne whispered just above the whistling wind.

Sansa didn't feel the wind, nor shiver from the cold. Her blood was boiling. Brienne helped her off the horse and when she stepped foot on the ground, she felt dripping between her thighs. It wasn't her moon's blood, it was her sores that were leaking. She refused to tell Brienne, for her injuries were more embarrassing to admit than wetting the bed. But beyond the embarrassment, her desire to confront Petyr outweighed everything else. She didn't need to stop and whine, or rest from the travel, or wipe herself clean, she _needed_ to see him.

She rushed ahead of her knight and walked into the shack.

It took strength not to scream at Lord Baelish when she finally saw him standing in the darkness with his back turned. He spun around when he heard her footsteps crunching in the snow, a sickening look of approval upon his face. _He knew I would come._

"Sansa," he smirked as if his stray dog had returned before Sansa felt her sworn sword by her side. "Lady Brienne," he greeted, his smile faded but still friendly.

Sansa stared at him, lost for words, heartbroken and furious. _You sold me_ , she wanted to scream. _I was yours and you just threw me away._ But she said nothing, too angry to speak with any coherence. 

"When I heard you'd escaped Winterfell, I feared the worst," he spoke as if it were true. His voice stirred her mix of emotions like a spoon in a pot, about to boil over. "You have no idea how happy I am...to see you unharmed."

"Unharmed," she spat in indignation. She felt the fluid leaking from the raw sores. She wanted to _harm him_ there, without any further banter, but she composed herself. War was a thinking game, and she had to be clever, not hot-blooded. "What are you doing here?"

 "I rode north with the Knights of the Vale to come to your aid. I'm encamped at Moat Cailin as we speak."

"To come to my aid," she repeated to see if the words felt as false coming from her mouth as they did when she heard them from his. _Lies_ , she thought as a chill ran through her body. She'd woken up that morning so happy for the healing of her back, but standing in front of the man she'd trusted, she no longer felt healed. He made every insecurity real again. "Did you know about Ramsay?" The mention of her husbands name brought forth an image of Littlefinger shaking Roose Bolton's hand, agreeing to a marriage to his bastard son that she only thought she was consenting to. "If you didn't know, you're an idiot. If you did know, you're my enemy."

The pain surged through her body as she took a step forward.

"Would you like to hear about our wedding night?" He remained silent, looking pathetic and helpless as he feigned concern over her. She wished she could strip her clothes and show him what Ramsay had done, as she'd done with Jon. But Petyr was perverse and she wouldn't give him the sick pleasure of seeing her. "He never hurt my face. He needed my face, the face of Ned Stark's daughter. But the rest of me - he did what he liked with the rest of me. As long as I could still give him an heir."

She contemplated telling him about the indecency of her wedding night, and the nightly torture he inflicted while she soiled her family's honor to keep her maidenhead one night longer. But admitting those details to him would have caused her more pain than she was willing to share. She wanted shame, and regret, and pain to be his burdens to carry, not hers.

She looked into his eyes and saw remorse. _Lies_ , she wanted to tell herself, but in the depths of her heart, she sensed that there was something about the arrangement that he regretted.

 _He did love me, once, didn't he?_ Or maybe not _love_ , but some twisted version of affection that hurt him to see her dishonored. If he loved her at all, then what good was it? If he didn't love her, then why was he here? She didn't know, and not knowing made her angrier. But she was too prideful to ask him the question - or too afraid of the answer. Instead, she was going to punish him, make him drown in his guilt.  "What do you think he did?"

She could see the discomfort that swallowed his ugly face. "I can't begin to contemplate-"

"What do you think he did to me," she pushed further, powering over his deflection.

The posed question unsettled him greatly, and for the first time, Sansa saw the clever and brilliant Petyr Baelish without a clever or brilliant thought in his head. He looked as if he was going to soil his pants in shame as he cowered away from her stare. _Just looking at me loosens his bowels_ , she thought all while wood creaked, and crows crowed, and wind whistled.

"Lady Sansa asked you a question," Brienne spoke loudly, though the reach for her sword spoke even louder.

"He beat you?" he finally offered after the veiled threat from Sansa's knight.

"Yes he enjoyed that." She stared at him, unblinking - not wanting to miss any sign of regret, or shame, or deceit in his face. "What else do you think he did?"

"Sansa, I d-"

"What else?" she pressed, the sharpness of her voice a verbal sword at his throat.

He nervously shifted his posture. "Did he cut you?"

She finally blinked, as tears froze inside her eyes. "Maybe you did know about Ramsay all along."

He refused the suggestion, shaking his head. "I didn't know."

"I thought you knew everyone's secrets," she narrowed her eyes at him; the grandmaster of whispers. How she enjoyed to see him squirm.

"I made a mistake," he said with a short and fearful step towards her. "A horrible mistake. I underestimated a stranger."

She wasn't ready to see him admit mistakes and move beyond his guilt. He needed to be punished, beaten with the truth of her time with Ramsay. She couldn't let him get away with thinking the beatings and cuttings were the worst of it. The invasion of all privacy and the violation of all she held sacred was something she figured he could never understand. But he wasn't going to slither away from having to acknowledge what she'd experienced.

"The other things he did, ladies aren't suppose to talk about those things - but I imagine brothel keepers talk about them all the time." As she clenched her muscles from the harsh tension of their meeting, she felt the lingering sensation of being spread and torn, she felt the dull pain where he'd chewed her flesh like meat, she felt the itch of her skin, and the burn in her feet. "I can still feel it," she announced furiously. "I don't mean in my tender heart, _it still pains me so,_ I can still feel what he did in my body standing here right now."

"I'm so sorry," he stammered.

"You said you would protect me," she threw at him.

"And I will," he promised. "You must believe me when I tell you that I will."

She remembered the day in the crypts of Winterfell, when her hair was black, and her heart was red, before the colors reversed. It was the last time she'd trusted him, the last time she'd kissed his lips.  _I was so stupid._

"I don't believe you anymore," she barked. "I don't need you anymore. You can't protect me. You won't be able to protect yourself if I tell Brienne to cut you down." She saw visions of Brienne plunging her sword deep into Littlefinger's heart. "And why shouldn't I?"

There was a somber moment of silence before he spoke. "Do you want me to beg for my life? If that is what you want, I will." She sincerely would have enjoyed to see him bow at her knees and beg for this maiden's mercy, but it troubled her to not know in that moment if she was willing to spare him. "Whatever you ask that is in my power, I will do."

"What if I wanted you to die, here and now?" she asked, more to understand her own desires than his.

"Then I will die."

His voice was clear and final, and for some reason, she felt pity instead of vengeance. She could have taken him hostage - he would have made a valuable prisoner - but she didn't want anything from him, even his value as a hostage. _Jon would have him seized right now._

"You freed me from the monsters who murdered my family. And you gave me to other monsters who murdered my family." It was as clear and final of a summation of his service to her as she could muster. Rejecting him to his face was what she needed for closure. "Go back to Moat Cailin. My brother and I will take back the North on our own. I never want to see you again."

"I would do anything to undo what has been done to you," he spoke before accepting his impotence. "I know that I can't. Will you allow me to say one more thing before I go?"

She swallowed her anger, awaiting whatever lie came forth. _Don't trust him, Sansa._

"Your great uncle, Bryden - The Blackfish has gathered what remains of the Tully forces and retaken Riverrun. You might consider seeking him out. The time may come when you need an army loyal to you."

"I have an army," she contended.

"Your brothers army," he nodded before taking step towards her, for the first time, unabashed. "Half-brother."

She let him walk past her without giving him another look, content to never see his face again but when he called to her, she instinctively faced him. He was smiling. "I failed to remember that I brought a gift."

"I don't want your gifts."

"Yes, I understand. But I have no need for it. It was hard enough riding here with it," he said, pointing to the corner. Only then did Sansa notice the beautiful dresses and cloaks hanging from a rod. "I figured you would want something warmer, and more elegant than rags."

"I'll wear rags before I ever again wrap myself in your comforts."

He looked upon her a final time before bowing and excusing himself from the shack. When the sound of his horse galloping faded, she moved to the dresses and examined them. There were of the colors and styles that she liked, freshly stitched, with so much attention to detail, the material so warm. She ordered for Brienne to bring the dresses with them.

"Do you think we should look around?" Brienne asked. "Gather any supplies we might need?"

"I could use some womanly supplies and garments," Sansa admitted.

They carefully searched through the ransacked buildings, finding most things were broken, frozen, or burned. Sansa did find perfume and powder hidden behind a burned bed. She nearly dropped it all when she looked in the corner and saw a group of women huddled together.

"We apologize, ladies." Brienne said to the women. They must have been the surviving whores of Mole's Town. "We didn't know anybody was still here."

The women didn't respond, just looked at them with frozen frowns. Sansa counted four of them, though there could have been a fifth under the covers. She thought about how short-manned the staff was at Castle Black, and the many tasks that could be filled by helpers. "We come from Castle Black," she announced to the women.

"There are no women at Castle Black," one of them tossed from the shadows.

"My brother Jon is Lord Commander. We have food, shelter from the cold. Winter is coming," she said. She knew she had no authority to offer them shelter, but she felt as if she needed to do something right for the world to make up for the lying. Margery always mixed deceit and wickedness with honesty and goodness. If the Night's Watch could protect wildlings, surely they could do the same for the women the wildlings left without a suitable home. "You ladies are more than welcomed to come with us back to Castle Black."

"We're not ladies, we're your brothers wenches," the one that looked the oldest said as she stood, clutching her torn blue gown.

"And why would we bother ourselves with the crows and their so called protection," another one yelled from the floor. Her lips were black. "Where were they when we were being raped and slaughtered by the wildlings?"

"The same wildlings that her damn brother invited through the wall," the elder of the group hissed.

"Just tax us and leave," a girl who looked no older than Arya said, her voice dry and husky.

Sansa looked at the powder and perfume in her arms. She suddenly remembered what Jon had said. _It's stealing even if you call it something else_. These women seemed disgusted by the Night's Watch, an order they had served in bed for so many years, so Sansa knew better than to force the idea of living with the crows on them. "I apologize for stealing your perfumes and powder."

"Fuck it, take the damned things, pretty lady. It's not like we'll ever need it," the elder laughed. "Just don't take our blankets and firewood."

"How about we trade, then," Sansa said, noting how they valued warmth above all. "Brienne, show them the dresses." Brienne stepped towards the women with freshly made dresses and cloaks that Littlefinger had gifted to her. "The powders and perfumes for the dresses and cloaks."

"Perfume for this?" the woman with black lips snatched the dress to feel it's warm and soft material.

"I think it's a fair trade, no?" Sansa asked, a sweetness to her voice that seemed to help ease the hostility of the room.

"We could pretend to be some highborn ladies with these," said one of the women with crooked teeth but beautiful green eyes.

"We'll take it vain girl," the elder said with a smile as she walked over to shake her hand.

They stayed for awhile longer, talking with the women about the state of Mole's Town, how they planned to rebuild it, and why they hadn't fled to winters town with the rest of the survivors. Sansa cared to listen, but she didn't want to arise too much suspicion back at Castle Black for being gone so long, so she ended their talk and wished them good fortunes and warmth as winter came.

They rode back to the hill where Podrick was skinning an animal. Only when Sansa dismounted did she realize it was a wolf. And to her surprise, another dead wolf lay bleeding in the snow at Pod's feet.

"What happened here?" Brienne asked in shock as Ghost licked the blood at his lips.

Podrick shrugged. "I shot this one," he pointed at the wolf he was skinning with a proud grin on his face. "Ghost got the other one."

"You killed these wolves?" Sansa asked.

"They were approaching Mole's Town. I couldn't risk them running into my ladies." He turned to Sansa. "I know your house sigil is a wolf. So I thought you might want to keep the pelts for the dress you're making. "

"Thank you so much, Pod," Sansa rushed into his arms, giving him a nice hug and kiss on the cheek. His smirk looked as if it would never leave his face.

"Pod, if you were busy hunting wolves and skinning them - pray tell me how you were also able to watch the perimeter?" Brienne asked, immediately deflating her squire.

Sansa laughed and broke up the chastisement before asking them to teach her to skin an animal. It wasn't nearly as difficult as she always imagined it to be, and even the blood didn't bother her as much. When the pelts of both wolves were collected, Brienne rode the meat back down to the hill to give to the women before they headed back to Castle Black. They'd been gone far longer than Sansa had planned.

As soon as they rode through the gates, she saw Jon waiting for her, a relieved yet disappointed look to his face. She showed him the perfume and powder, but it didn't stop him from complaining that he wished they'd told him before they left, even if just for a few hours. "It's not safe out there," her brother declared.

"I had Brienne and Ghost with me," she told him.

"What's one knight and a wolf to an infantry of Bolton soldiers or a clan of wildlings?" Jon barked.

The anger in his voice took her breath away. He wasn't in the same spirit as he had been that morning, after taking part in healing her. "I'm sorry, Jon."

He calmed himself and gave her a long hug. "Don't just leave without telling me, Sansa. Don't scare me."

His words left her shaken as he led her and Brienne into a chamber to discuss their battle plan for re-taking Winterfell. Davos was already waiting, looking about a map at the table.

Soon after Sansa and Brienne were seated, did the wildling Tormund waltz through the doors with a grin and knife. He sat down, greeted the women in the room and started cutting his fingernails with the knife, stopping every so often to admire the look of astonishment on Brienne's face. Lord Commander Edd joined them next, a kind but nervous smile to his face. Melisandre was last to arrive, and she didn't say a word to anyone as she took her seat, a cold melancholy about her that didn't seem to match her warm features.

The meeting began with Jon ranting.

Sansa knew the stakes were dire, and the odds daunting, but the intensity of his frustration puzzled her. They had just shared such a lovely night together, where they laughed, and talked, and cuddled together for warmth - not to mention the magic that healed them both. None of that seemed to matter to him now. He was so angry.

_I was right in not telling him about Petyr._

"We can't defend the north from the walkers and the south from the Boltons," he announced as no surprise. "If we want to survive, we need Winterfell and to take Winterfell we need more men." He slammed an icon on the map and turned his back to the rest of them. This wasn't a Jon she'd ever known, to see him so frustrated and angry. _He cares now,_ she realized. He was actually afraid of losing. He had _something_ to lose.

The fierceness of his anger gave her butterflies, a strange feeling. She wanted to calm him, for she liked his smile, but for some reason she also desired to see his anger escalate.

The Onight Knight ended the uneasy silence by going back to the map and talking about which northern houses were most powerful, mentioning the Umbers which reminded Sansa of her little brothers captivity. "The Umbers gave Rickon to our enemies, they can hang." But she remembered the Karstarks from her youth. The Sun of Winter. Stark blood ran through their veins. "But the Karstarks declared for Ramsay without knowing they had another choice."

Davos didn't even look at her as she spoke. "I beg your pardon my lady but they know a Stark beheaded their father. I don't think we can count on them either."

She rolled her eyes at this Onion Knight talking down to her as if she was a child. Petyr Baelish was the most powerful influence in the Seven Kingdoms and no more than a few hours ago, she had him shitting himself as he begged for his life. _I conquered Littlefinger._

She couldn't announce this at the table, but it was a victory that gave her confidence to speak with conviction.

She spent years in the capital pretending she didn't have a voice - letting everyone around her think she didn't have a useful thought in her head. For years she endured the comments of _stupid_ and _empty-headed_ and _witless._ She smiled at her enemies and thanked them for their humiliation. She avoided confrontation and embraced her role as stupid little girl _so she could survive._

But there was a difference between fighting and surviving. Sansa was ready to fight. She wasn't a timid little girl anymore. She no longer feared moments like this - to have her thoughts heard and acknowledged. And after all she'd been through to get to this northern war council, she would not let a foreigner presume that he knew more about the north than Ned Stark's daughter. "How well do you know The North, Ser Davos?"

"Precious little, my lady," he said, taking a seat and giving her the respect she was due.

"My father always said northerners are different - more loyal, more suspicious of outsiders," she threw at him, evoking lessons given by her dear father that fanned the fire in her belly. She had the blood of a wolf, and wolves barked.

"They may be more loyal. But how many rose up against the Boltons when they betrayed your family?" he asked, reopening old wounds that she'd felt while trapped in the walls of Winterfell while the north forgot about her. "I may not know The North, but I know men. They're more or less the same in every corner of the world and even the bravest of them don't want to see their wives and children skinned for a lost cause." He gave a slight pause, as if to allow Sansa to consider his words. "If Jon is going to convince them to fight alongside him. They need to believe it's a fight they can win."

She didn't like the way Davos was speaking on the north, but she struggled to find a weakness in his argument. It made her feel inadequate - failing to present a better case than an outside that didn't know or care about the people he was attempting to unite. Jon argued that starting with the smaller houses would be a wiser strategy, and Davos readily agreed.

It was important that they agree with her, that they recognize that she too understood the north they were fighting for. She knew all of the sigils, and the house words, and the names of their strongholds, and the names of their Lords.  That made her important to the rally, especially as Ned's little girl. She had a stake in this, it was _her name_ that was Stark.

"The North Remembers," she chimed in, even if some doubt existed in her heart. "They remember the Stark name," she declared, hoping it to be true. "They will still risk everything for it from White Harbor to Ramsay's own door."

Davos looked at her. "I don't doubt it. But Jon doesn't have the Stark name."

"No," she spat,"but I do." She felt every eye on her, and for a second she felt judged, as if everything out of her mouth was naive and wrong. But she wasn't naive and stupid anymore, she was clever and knew these houses better than everyone in that room. She knew what would rally them. "Jon is every bit as much Ned Stark's son as Ramsay is Roose Bolton's. And there are also the Tully's - they're not northern - but they'll back us against the Bolton's without question."

"I didn't know the Tully's still had an army," Davos said.

This was her chance to be useful. To tackle the smugglers ignorance and inform him of important details he didn't know.

"My uncle The Blackfish has reformed it and retaken Riverrun," she smiled, folding her hands together. The moment of being pleased with herself passed suddenly when she remembered where she'd gotten that information from. The lying, manipulative, snake that sold her to monsters. She told herself not to trust Littlefinger, swore to herself that whatever he told her would be a lie, a trick, a plan he was setting in motion. Yet here she was, repeating his lies with the assurance that it was truth.

"How'd you know that?" Jon asked.

There was no turning back now.

"Ramsay received a raven before I escaped Winterfell," she lied, channeling lessons she'd received from Littlefinger. She remembered how well she'd lied to keep him safe after he murdered her Aunt Lysa. _Why am I lying to protect him, once more?_

She looked towards Jon and up to Davos, searching for something. 

"That's good. The Blackfish is a legend. His support will mean a great deal." The wave of satisfaction that washed over her made things clearer. It pleased her to hear Davos praise her information, even if she didn't like the pirate. "Stark, Tully, a few more houses. Almost starting to look like a winning side."

The men at the table looked at her as if she was important. But the validation she felt was tainted by the guilt that was tied to her actions. She forged a letter that morning, and was now lying to a war council. All she could think about was Littlefinger's words.

_In a better world, one where love could overcome strength and duty. You might have been my child._

At that moment, she felt more like the fruit of Littlefinger than Ned Stark. But the world didn't seem like a better place because of it. _Maybe I'm just a bad person, like he is._

The small council went deeper into discussing a strategy, though the majority of the time was spent figuring out travel routes, and who they should address letters to. For now, no passionate pitches or arguments, just the tedious but essential details that Sansa paid close attention to.

Navigating the land was not her strong suit, so she asked questions and soaked up as much as she could before concluding that it would be best to send Brienne to Riverrun to parlay with her uncle. Ravens traveling that far south carried a larger risk of being shot down, and even if the raven made it, there was always the chance that Petyr had lied to her and the Freys were still occupying the castle.

Sansa forced herself to justify the decision to trust Littlefinger's intel, that she wasn't sending her knight into a trap. _Brienne has shown she is capable of traveling long distances quickly while evading bandits and soldiers_ , she thought. A _nd if it came to a fight, Brienne is equipped to defend herself._  

Her train of thought was broken when she noticed The Red Woman staring at her as if she could read every wicked thought in her head. She turned away from the priestess and suddenly she could only think about secrets, things she wouldn't want anybody to know.

That her lies was why father had to kill Lady.

That she'd sided with the Lannisters over her own family.

That she'd been mean to her septas because it amused her.

That she'd enjoyed the foul kiss from The Hound.

That she was sitting here and now, lying to them all, even to her brother - a brother she desired to have touch her bare skin once more.

_I'm a liar and cruel, then and now, and she knows the awful truth._

Sansa gave a coy look towards her, afraid that her insecurities were an open book and Melisandre was reading all of her secrets and judging her.

She paid very little attention to the final minutes of the meeting and tried to make a quick exit after they broke for the remainder of the day, but The Red Woman grabbed her hand before she could leave. Her skin was hot to the touch, just like The Blue Vial, and the heat from her eyes felt nearly as hot. Before she spoke a word, Melisandre took in Sansa's scent."You used the ointment," she said.

"I....," she paused, looking behind her to see Jon engaged in conversation with Davos and Edd. Brienne was studying the map while Tormund studied her. She turned back to Mel and asked "How'd you know?"

"The scent is powerful," Melisandre eyed her. "It stays in the skin - in the blood."

"I don't smell it anymore," Sansa said as she remembered the scent discrepancy between her and Jon. She'd smelled wine, and smoke, and blood while Jon had described hints of the outdoors. "What does it smell like to you?"

For a second, Sansa saw a faint hint of a smile. "It smells like many, many years of kisses, hugs, and warm nights." Before Sansa could respond, Brienne appeared at her side, a nastier than usual grimace on her face. "My door is always open for you, Sansa Stark." She gave Brienne a blank look before leaving the room.

Brienne complained about her role as the two women walked back to the bedchamber, but Sansa was focused on being diplomatic, not sparing hurt feelings.

"Ride for Riverrun. My uncle will talk to you and you'll know how to talk to him," Sansa persuaded as soon as they were inside the room. She sat on the bed and winced from the leakage that she still hadn't tended to. Sansa was conflicted with her other thoughts and emotions, so Brienne's look of discomfort with her assignment irritated her. "What is it?" she sighed.

"I don't like leaving you here alone."

"With Jon?"

"Not him," she conceded. "He seems trustworthy. A bit brooding perhaps but I suppose it's understandable considering..." She took a long breath and walked deeper into the room before squaring with Sansa and staring hard at her. "The others though - Davos and The Red Woman helped a man murder his own brother with blood magic. And when Stannis paid for his crime, where were they? Already out looking for a leader with better prospects." She took a second to ponder another complaint. "And that wildling fellow with the beard-"

"Jon isn't Tormund," Sansa interjected, having heard enough. "And Jon isn't Davos or The Red Woman or Stannis for that matter. Jon is Jon." She felt strange taking up for her brother. She never had before. But the warm feelings she received in her tummy when she evoked him felt good. "He's my brother, he'll keep me safe. I trust him."

Brienne gathered a moment, sucking in a small breath before asking "Then why did you lie to him when he asked how you learned about Riverrun?"

Correct posture and a sweet wit was Sansa's shield, a ladies strength, but the question disarmed her. She felt vulnerable as she stumbled for a response. She opened her mouth but remained speechless. She felt pressed between a brother she trusted with her deepest scars and an honorable man she couldn't trust to outwit their enemies. She had to be the one to push Jon's honor in a winning direction.

"If I've learned anything useful since the murder of my family, it's that deceit is a weapon - the strongest weapon, and it's one that even a lady can wield. I was told by Tyrion Lannister that my brother Robb used deceit to capture your friend Jaime. He gave false information to a Lannister spy to split their forces. My brother sent thousands of men to die in a battle they were outnumbered 20 to 1. It was a sacrifice of honor, so the important battle could be won."

"A battle was won," Brienne agreed. "But the war was lost."

"The war is still going," Sansa disputed. "As long as I'm alive, the fight is. And I've learned that wars aren't always won with great fighters or courage from bannermen. Strategic lies are equally important."

"Yes, strategic lies to your enemies. I'll willingly lie to any Bolton spy but lying to the council..."

"Sometimes we must lie to our friends - our family. Sometimes they cannot know our plans. My mother knew this, which is why she freed Jaime behind my brothers back. You helped her in this deceit."

"Yes I did and I will help you lie to anybody you need me to lie to, including your brother. I just want to know that your plan is sound. That the deceit is well placed. You're sending me away from you on the word of a man that sold you to your enemies. How are you so sure that Littlefinger isn't _deceiving you now_?"

"I just need you to trust me, as you trusted my mother," Sansa said in frustration. It was another question she didn't have a good answer for. She turned her attention to Brienne, ready to attack her than defend herself. "Was your sword reformed from my dead fathers greatsword?" she threw out clumsily. But the sudden fluster to Brienne's face made her feel clever in the observation. "You told me Jaime gave you the best to find me and Arya. A fancy set of armor, with a fancy sword. But perhaps the sword is more than fancy."

She earlier noted that the sword appeared too small to be her fathers greatsword but the earlier conversation about her friendship with Jaime had made her think deeper, like Petyr would have done. "Joffrey was given a Valyrian steel sword as a gift when he married Margery. But it clearly wasn't Ice. The little shit is too weak to wield Ice," she spat.

"After I escaped to the Eyrie, I asked Littlefinger if my fathers sword would be returned to a Stark and he laughed at me - surely I was joking. He told me that Joffrey's sword Widow's Wail was Ice reforged by some smith that knew the secrets of reforging. When I mentioned that it was too small, he told me that Tywin had likely made another sword or two with the remaining precious metal." She narrowed her eyes at Brienne, whose eyes had fallen. "Who else would Tywin gift a sword to but his son?"

"You're very observant, m'lady - and you're right," she said, drawing the sword out and presenting it at her feet. "I should have done this when I first swore to you."  She was reminded of Brienne slicing through the Bolton soldiers in the snow. The sword had been laid at her feet after the skirmish, but Sansa had been so cold and shocked and smitten with the knight bowing before her to notice.

In that moment, she'd cared more about saying her vows correctly than anything else. And even so, she wasn't good with swords, and likely would not have been able to identify that it was even Valyrian steel. "I was going to present the sword to you when-"

"It doesn't matter when. You kept it from me," Sansa said. "I'm not angry with you. I trust you and believe you had good reasons for your decision to keep it from me. I just need you to accept that I have good reasons for my decisions as well. Trust me as I trust you." She pushed herself off her rear and looked down at the sword, which had been used in sentencing executions for as long as Sansa could remember. It had even been used to take her fathers head from his shoulders. "What did you name it?"

"Oathkeeper, m'lady."

"Oathkeeper," Sansa repeated before bending down to pick the sword up from the handle. She felt herself leaking but pushed beyond the pain, refusing to let Brienne see her weak. Though Valyrian swords had the reputation of being light and resilient, it was still surprising how light it was as she tilted it towards her chest and let the pointy end stick to the floor.

When she allowed the sword to rest on it's own weight, the point began sliding into the wooden floor.

_It's so sharp._

"I want you to kill a lot of men with Oathkeeper." She no longer wished to hide her thirst for blood. "Serve justice to my family, with what remains of my fathers sword."

"That, I will do," Brienne said, her voice cold enough to chill the air.

Eventually a knock came at the door, bringing in Podrick and the wolf pelts, which Sansa worked with until the sky turned black. With Brienne and Podrick set to depart from Sansa in a few days, Jon invited them to his bedchamber for dinner. They sat by the fire with cups of ale, and dined on venison stew with soft carrots and hot bread, along with a side of chickpea and turnip salad.

Brienne proved herself once more, and lied to Jon about their reasons for visiting for Mole's Town, filling in details of their visit when Jon asked about who they met and what they did. She lied well, an ironic perversion of being an oathkeeper.

The atmosphere surrounding the meal was surprisingly cozy.  Jon wasn't sulking, and didn't seem as distant as he had been at the meeting. He even spoke in jest about them all fleeing to the Summer Isles to avoid winter and war. They spent a good part of the night speaking on the rumors of dragons returning to Essos.

Brienne was dipping her bread in the stew when she said chatter about the Dragon Queen and her dragons was a popular topic at the Inns. "They say the beautiful Daenerys Targaryen rides from city to city in Slavers Bay, freeing slaves and adding them to her already enormous army of Dothraki and Unsullied."

"She might do well to use her dragons to rain fire upon the dead beyond the Wall," Jon said at one point after he had licked his bowl clean. Sansa wasn't sure that he believed the tales, but Jon's reactions were sometimes hard to read.

Podrick told everyone that he knew the rumors to be true because Tyrion had spoken about the war to come when the 'Dragon Queen' finally decided to claim what was hers.

Sansa had seen her former husband reading books about dragons deep into the night with a cup of wine. She had thought it queer that a man enjoyed reading books. There were no songs about great knights that read books and the men she grew up watching liked to fight, and hunt, and drink. Tyrion had acquired the talent for drinking, but he was too small to enjoy fighting and hunting.

She had once commented to him that perhaps he should have been a maester, studying at the great libraries at the Citadel, since he liked reading so much. He'd told her that he wouldn't have enjoyed reading if it had been forced on him. He chose to read his books because dragons and the men and women riding them interested him.

"I wouldn't want to read these books just so I can serve my knowledge to Lords and Ladies that think I am beneath them," he'd said. "You enjoy your needlework, I see. Would you enjoy needle work if that's all you ever did, all you ever were- day and night sewing stockings and gowns for the likes of Cersei?"

She hadn't answered his question, but she remembered admiring his reading after that. Still, his fascination with dragons left her suspicious about his insistence that the Dragon Queen was real. He wanted her and her dragons to be real, and Sansa had long ago learned that hoping for something to be real didn't make it so. Even praying didn't have an effect on providing one with what they desired. Otherwise she would have had her direwolf, her home, her family. And she would not have been fighting so hard to hide the pain on her face.

Sansa played the part of a lady well, giggling and making herself lovely and pleasant for the benefit of others. But there was nothing lovely or pleasant about her raw thighs rubbing together sticky but cold fluid that had leaked throughout the day. Worst of all was the sting in her bottom. It felt like her rear was burning, and she knew it would only get worse when she found the time to relieve herself.

The stench was almost as embarrassing as the pain. The perfume she sprayed had covered her stench at first, but the longer the dinner went, the more she could smell her odor. She couldn't help but feel nervous anytime Brienne, or Pod, or Jon inhaled deeply through their nose.

 _Can they smell my stink?_  

Perfume wasn't enough, It was going to take a deep and painful cleaning to get rid of that smell. She shifted as she sat cross-legged by the fire, smiling despite the sting and burn and stink, a lady through it all.

When Podrick covered his mouth to stifle a loud burp, it became clear to the rest of them that the food and drink had settled in their bellies, and it was time to retire for the night.

After Brienne and Podrick had left, she gave Jon an easy smile and excused herself to his private privy to get ready for bed. She brought with her some napkins, cloth, and soap, as well as the powder and perfume she'd gotten from Mole's Town. It was the first time all day she'd been given the privacy to nurse herself. As soon as she closed the door, she lit several candles in the privy and sprayed perfume.

Once she stepped out of her dress, she wiped at her privy parts with the napkin. Upon examining the sticky, stinky gunk, she blinked tears away and vomited her meal of chickpeas, turnips, and stew into the pot.

She sat that same pot and wiped away filth and fluid and scabs that never healed because her bowels would not let them. The only comfort Sansa took as she cleaned herself was that Ramsay was not there to witness it, as he had been so many times during her most private moments. She dipped the cloth in a bucket of soapy water and scrubbed. The sting and burn brought tears to her eyes, but they never fell as she scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed at every crevice until she was clean.

She powdered her sores and tender red skin, but stopped when she saw her arms, cleared of the scars that had been there the night before.

The Red Woman's magic had healed her. Made her feel so happy and renewed that morning. Why was she now in this privy near tears, feebly attempting to heal herself when the healing was in that blue vial. She took a look at the dingy cloth sitting in a bucket of fifthly water and soap, and decided she would not suffer another night of this.

She dressed and left the privy angry, and determined. Jon was waiting on the bed, looking troubled as she approached him.

"You were in there for nearly an hour," he noted. "Are you alright?"

"I had to clean myself," she said, her voice cracking as she tried to remain strong. "And I'm hurting."

"Your feet?" he asked softly. "You've been walking funny since returning from your ride."

Her feet hurt. But blistered feet did not give her the same anguish as a blistered rump. "Not my feet."

"What's hurting, Sansa?"

"I need to use the ointment again." It took a pull from her pride to keep her tears from falling like a hard rain. "I can't take another night of this."

He eyed her for a moment and suddenly her predicament must have hit him. _Shitting hurts_ , she'd told him days earlier, and the hurt was more painful than it had ever been. Jon left the bed and retrieved the vial from the inside of his desk, still blue as a perfect day. Jon approached her with a scowl to his face, a change from how sad and helpless he looked when she first detailed her torture.

"I'm going to kill him for you," he told her as he wiped a single tear from her cheek that she didn't know had fallen. He kissed her forehead and she melted into his arms. He wasn't apologizing anymore, telling her that he was sorry for what had happened. Now he was vowing to do something about it - _for her_. "I swear on all that remains in me that Ramsay will pay dearly for all that he has done to you."

She clung tight to his body, inhaling his masculine odor. "It _needs_ to be me," she said softly as he ran his fingers through her hair. "I _need_ to be the one to pass the sentence. I _need_ to be the one that kills him. I _need_ my face to be the last thing he sees before he dies." She forced herself away his embrace so that she could stare into her brothers dark eyes, so sincere and beautiful. "Promise me, Jon. Promise me that your honor, your vengeance won't get in the way of me getting what I _need_. Promise me."

"I'll give him to you," he said after a moment of being lost in her eyes, absorbing his sisters plight. "I promise." It wasn't pity or depression or fear that filled his belly and framed his face, but rage, passion, love. The clarity of his vow shook her, made her want to plant his face with kisses of gratitude. _His will belongs to me._ And that devotion made her feel near beautiful, and whole, and wanted.

He looked at the blue vial burning in his hand before taking a step back, away from his sister, away from the moment. He moved towards the door. When he was lesser, she would have feared that he was fleeing, but Jon had made it perfectly clear that day that he would never run from his duty to her again.

He locked the door and blew out the two candles that sat in sconces on both sides of the entrance. The sudden darkness at the front of the chamber swallowed her brother whole. But he emerged from the darkness like the survivor he was, moving along the wall, blowing out candles.

She stood in place, confused about Jon's actions, but trusting him wholly. He walked past her to more candles, blowing forcefully on the dancing flames until they flickered out, leaving behind only a smoky reminder that they were once alive.

He blew at the remaining candles that gave light and warmth to the room, inviting in the cold, and the darkness. When the room was near black, aside from the faint glow at the fireplace across from the bed, she began shivering. Her warmth was diminished, but not her trust.

When he moved to the nightstand at the head of the bed, where a final candle was burning all alone, Sansa held out her hands for the candle holder. He handed it to her and watched as she blew on the flame, which fought for life, twirling around her wind, struggling to stay aflame. When it finally died, she took a deep breath, looking into the darkness for even a silhouette of her brother.

"Take off your dress," she heard from the darkness.

She trembled at his words and the wolf-like bark to his voice. The audacity alone should have been off-putting, but along with nervous excitement, she felt compelled. His voice was deep and assertive and she did not have it in her to disobey.

Before she could argue with herself about disrobing in front of her brother she slid the sides off her shoulders. She realized she had been holding her breath by the time she freed her breast. She exhaled slowly and instinctively covered her chest with an arm. The smell hit her as soon as she heard him remove the pull from the vial, that same strong stench of wine and war.

Her eyes somewhat adjusted to the darkness of the room, but she still couldn't see her brother well, which gave her the necessary conviction to keep disrobing. She wiggled the dress down her hips and after hearing his breaths and feeling his protective presence, let her garment drop to her feet. She stepped out as naked as her name day.

She could feel her heart thumping and her muscles tensing. One hand shielded her private parts while the other held tight to her chest. The attempt to cover her nakedness felt silly given that she'd willingly disrobed before him. But he was her brother, and she was his little sister, and father would have killed her _and Jon_ if he could have seen them like this.

"Lay flat on the bed," he spoke as he rubbed his oily hands together. "On your belly."

His command gave her goosebumps. She scratched at them, shivering on the cold wooden floors.

She understood that Jon had blown out the candles so she could hide herself as he massaged her but the shadow of darkness did not truly make her feel hidden. She felt winds at her soft spots, a heavy cold from the floors at her bare feet, but most overwhelming was the heat from his presence.

Perhaps they could lie to each other about the cover of darkness, a sister pretending that because her brother couldn't see her, then there was no breach in sibling decency. But she couldn't lie to herself about it. She was completely stripped of coverings to hide behind - no gowns, or crowns, or perfumes - bared completely, a fully naked Sansa Stark, every scar, and birthmark, and insecurity his to see.

She climbed into the bed on hands and knees _,_ her sacred parts exposed, blushing and trembling before gods and man, but mostly man.

Where was her modesty?

She'd been stripped before men in the past, but unlike the nervous excitement she felt being unclothed before Jon, those experiences were humiliating. Ramsay had torn her dress right in front of Theon as he defiled her on their wedding night. Joffrey had forced Sansa to beg for her life like a peasant in front of the entire court, only to have the King order Merryn Trant to beat and strip her half naked. "Leave her face," Joffrey had said before Ser Trant crumbled her with a punch in the gut. "I like her pretty," he'd mocked. 

Both Ramsay and Joffrey had insisted on keeping her pretty while they abused her body.

They'd both succeeding in ruining her body but maintaining her face. But the story was not complete. Jon was first going to heal her scars, and together, they would take vengeance for the abuse. She briefly wished that Joffrey was still alive, just so she could see him die again, _this time by my hands, not my jewelry._

Her violent thoughts vanished the moment she felt Jon's hands at her lower back, smoothing oily ointment along the curve. It was cold, like last time, but the shock was more from the suddenness of Jon's touch. His hands were so firm, wetting her hips with oil as he rubbed side to side. She buried her face into the fur cover of the bed and bit her lips as his hands massaged the skin just above her ass. "Is this okay?"

She nodded into the bed, as if he could see.

His oily hands slipped past her cheeks, to the back of her thighs, all the way down to her ankles before moving back up and settling on her ass. He pressed and pulled her ass cheeks, kneading the fatty skin with firm hand movements. The oil had become hot and tingly, as she felt his fingers dipping slightly between the creases of her bottom. She stiffed a scream by letting her mouth hang open and sucking in short breaths.

"Am I being too rough?" he asked, squeezing her with his palms and massaging her with his fingers.

She enjoyed his assertiveness and could have handled him being even more firm. But she told him no and kept her desire _for more_ hidden inside her head.

He continued massaging, working his hands at the back of her thighs and the flesh of her ass, and she rode his massage into a deep enjoyment. The heat of the oil, the warmth of his firm hands, the tingle of the ointment's magic, the thrill of not seeing, not knowing where he would touch next - it felt _so wrong_ but _so good_.

His fingers pinched at her oily skin as if he was molding the crust of a pie, and his palms sculpted the curves of her flesh as if he was shaping clay. It felt better than an itch being scratched, better than the relief of making water after holding it in for hours, better than hot baths on cold nights.

And the longer his hands became familiar with the wholeness of her bum, the longer her list of pleasures this felt better than became.

But at some point, she opened her eyes and became aware that Jon was avoiding the healing touch she actually needed. This wasn't supposed to be a carnal indulgence, where the goal of pleasure tempted brother and sister into something resembling incest. This massage was supposed to be treatment, a medical endeavor to heal the blisters that made sitting, and riding, and shitting painful.

But Jon hadn't touched her center, at the root of her pain. His slippery fingers had moved into the creases, perhaps on accident as he tried gripping her oily cheeks, but never a true and intentional touch. But how could she tell her brother where she needed his touch without exposing this mummers farce? _Jon Snow, my dear brother, could you kindly rub your fingers a little lower, inside my asshole?  
_

There wasn't a polite way to make such a rude request.

She thought about spreading herself just a tad and tooting her rear up to give him a hint, but the idea of spreading her butt cheeks seemed ridiculous, if not wanton. She twisted herself in knots trying to come up with a way to innocently suggest that he touch her....there. 

But Jon arrived at the moment of truth eventually, as his fingers inched further into her creases. "Do you trust me, Sansa?"

His consideration of her trust eased her into her words. "I trust you, Jon."

He massaged her hips several seconds longer before carefully spreading her open with more care than Ramsay ever did. The queer cold she felt as Jon held her open before gods elicited such a strong reaction that she nearly recoiled. She suddenly felt aware of every cut and bump and tear that made her so damaged. _He sees me completely now._

"I want to heal you, but only if you permit me to," he spoke, reading her body language.

The memories of her wedding night flashed. The shame of being taken there, of all places, in Winterfell, her fathers home, as she cried in disgrace. It was just one night of many that added up to the ruin she felt now. She balled her hands into fists and refused to run away from being healed. She squeezed the furs. "I permit you to heal me."

She felt his touch......there...and then the hotness of the oil...there....and then she gasped.  

That touch shattered the standards of right and wrong, love and beauty, brother and sister, as she knew them.

Growing up a lady, Sansa had always hated her hidden places. She thought the body was beautiful, the form sacred. She especially liked her own; her Tully auburn hair and blue eyes, and pretty face, and even her breast and nipples, but she could never understand why the gods had made it for ladies, representing grace, and love, and beauty to have privy parts.

Dirty body parts betrayed the very essence of beauty, everything that came from there was unbecoming of a lady. And that was before she learned of the flowering of womanhood. Piss, and shit, and blood, for the longest she pretended that those things were not part of her - that her pretty face and voice and perfumes and dresses were all there ever was of Sweet Sansa. But the past month had made her well aware of the entirety of her body, even the parts she once hated, even the parts she rejected as her own.

She could have never fathomed a finger ever entering the source of her filth. She'd only heard of whores at brothels or victims of rape being subjected to that invasion. Even the gods considered that hole dirty and buggery unholy. So what seemed as if it should have been evil, painful, an afront to the gods, and a betrayal of family values, it somehow _felt right_.

This wasn't Ramsay overwhelming her clenched stinkhole with mockery, and seed, and ravishing. This was Jon overwhelming her hidden opening with passion, and ointment, and nursing. She felt her muscles expanding, her tightness accommodating his soft touch, inviting him deeper. She felt the ointment absorbing into the depths of her chute, warming her walls, healing the cuts and sores that her husband left behind.

 _My bastard brother's finger is inside my asshole._ Perhaps the bastard bit made it less distasteful, she thought. Yes they shared the same blood, but Jon was healing her when the gods had refused - he was giving her relief where the gods wouldn't. How could she call that dirty, or unholy, or wrong? He was allowing her to love and appreciate her body - _her entire body_.

But try as she could to justify the fact of his finger settling into her most private opening, she could not run from the fact that Jon was her brother. A piece of his body was joining hers. _And it felt good._

How heartbroken would father be to see his sweet Sansa with her rotten hole penetrated by his bastard? Would he think his princess was ruined? _He would kill me and Jon._

How furious would her mother be at Jon if she saw this moment? How irredeemable would she be in her mothers eyes? _She would kill me and Jon._

How disgusted would their dear siblings be if they knew this foul fact of near incest? _Robb would kill Jon. Arya would kill me._

"Am I hurting you?" he asked as her tightness swallowed his finger.

"Uh-uh," she squealed.

"You will tell me if this is too much?" he asked as his finger slipped as deep as it could go.

"Uh-huh," she nodded, clenching every muscle in her body. His finger fit so perfectly. There was no pain, only a deep sense of intimacy and love as he gently caressed her flesh, while she struggled not to moan like a whore.

She no longer felt the cold of the room, just a steady spasm of heat that began at her rear, but seemed to settle into her blood, pumping through her body. Perhaps this was perverse, an incestuous twist from what had been well placed intentions but when Jon pulled out of her and asked that she turn on her back, she swallowed her perverted guilt and obeyed.

Being healed with this magical ointment by her brothers hands _felt good_ , and for the moment, _feeling good_ overwhelmed everything else. She rolled onto her back and stared into the darkness, where Jon was looking down at her.

The faint glow of the fireplace was just bright enough for her to see Jon. Not his eyes, or his mouth, or any of his features, but a dark impression of him standing above her. "I want to get the sores on the inside of your legs before the ointment dries," he spoke.

"Okay," she managed in a whisper as she hid her tits, but spread her legs.

She braced herself for the intensity of his touch, pinning the soles of her feet on the bed, her toes curling against the soft furs. He wasted no time, touching at her belly and slowly sliding his hands until he found her lap. His palms pressed hard against the softness between her legs. If he couldn't see what he was doing, he clearly had enough instinct to follow the curves of her body until he was to the right places. 

The sores were usually so painful to the touch, especially after they had been rubbed raw during the ride to Mole's Town. Whether it was Jon's tender touch, or some magical property in the ointment, her sores seemed incapable of producing pain as his stiff fingers rubbed against them.

She swallowed the spit that was building in her throat and closed her eyes. Removing her sight from the experience only deepened her vulnerability.

But there was something comforting, even soothing about laying there helpless as Jon became intimate with the softness between her legs. Sansa had a profound fear of giving herself over to the control of men. It was exhausting keeping her guards up, hiding her body, defending her heart. She presented to the world a woman that looked like Sansa, sounded like Sansa, even laughed, and sang, and talked like Sansa....but that woman wasn't Sansa. Not the woman she felt deep inside her soul. But being bare before another soul felt like the most honest version of herself. _How can I lie when I'm so naked?_

Stripping herself of all pretense and control gave her a relief that she didn't know she needed. It was liberating to trust someone with all there was of her.

She opened her eyes, wondering if Jon had enough light to see the auburn bush that shielded her womanhood. Or if he could see past her mound, what was he thinking?

Would he be disgusted by what he saw? Angry that Ramsay had debased her there as well? 

She imagined him rubbing his slick fingers at her entrance, massaging her folds, healing her there too. And as she imagined this healing, her one nipple swelled in her finger to the size of a chickpea. She pressed down to flatten it, but found herself rocking to the movement of his massage, softly, in rhythm as his hands devoured her thighs.

She lost herself in a moan that was louder than she meant to release and found herself covering her mouth to keep from being even louder. But it was hard, for his touch _felt so good,_ and made her feel as if a bigger wave of pleasure was about to drown her if she only kept rocking.

She heard Jon gasp, and only then did she become aware of her inner wetness. She could smell her own heat.

"I think we should stop," Jon announced, his voice haggard and his hands trembling.

"No," she begged as she held his wrist and moved to her brothers touch, spreading her wings wider. "Don't stop."

Jon's sudden groan startled her as he broke free and stumbled away from the bed. She heard a noise at the floor and sat up in the bed covering herself, the tension broken. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Immediately, a fragrance of war attached itself to the cold, to the wind, to her nakedness.

"The vial fell on the floor," Jon said out of breath. "It spilled everywhere." Before she could even say anything she heard his footsteps shuffling away. "I'm sorry but I need to go for a walk."

He left in a hurry as if he had done something terribly wrong, leaving her filled with shame as she reached for her dress.

 


	7. Sansa IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. Life really got in the way, but I hope people are still interested in reading what happens next.

**Sansa IV**

 

Sansa threw on her dress and boots, hurrying to catch her fleeing brother. But he was gone. And she was alone, standing outside his bedchamber in the cold of night.

His eagerness to get away from her was unsettling. They had just shared a moment of intimacy that should have brought them closer. Perhaps the act had been indecent, but they had good reason to do it - the sincerest of intentions.

The act of healing was good. Would it have been more honorable for an old maester she didn't trust to tell her to disrobe and lay on the bed? More pious for that strangers bony finger to invade her body? Pushing deep into a broken girl with tears falling down her face? Screams of agony escaping her mouth? The desperation of having to consent to another round of humiliation just so she could shit without bleeding? 

Was that true healing? And not the loving moment, free of agony, tears, and humiliation that she shared with a loving brother? The only loving moment she had truly felt in years?

She wanted to tell Jon that he hadn't done anything wrong. Affirm to him that his good deed _was_ truly good. Convince him that she was full of gratitude.

But standing there alone, she felt full of shame. Ghost joined her in the courtyard, nudging at her feet. The direwolf had been there to witness it all. The disrobing, the massage, the _moans_. But if Jon's wolf understood what had happened, he didn't judge them for it. He loved them still. His unconditional devotion provided some comfort, but not enough to drown the unspeakable truth that twisted in her belly like knives. Ghost was a beautiful soul, but a beast no less, blissfully ignorant.

The siblings knew better. And one of them couldn't face it. One of them ran away.

But instead of running after him, Sansa found herself at The Red Woman's door, knocking.

Sansa could not live in blissful ignorance like Ghost could. She had to live with the truth of her actions, her thoughts, her feelings. And living with them had become more complicated since making it to Castle Black.

She felt conflicted, pulled towards Jon in ways that made her blush, made her want to be around him, made her want him to touch her. When did it all begin? Was it the night she chastised him for not being the fighter she needed? Was it the night they laughed together, reminiscing about their childhood, their siblings, their home? Was it even before that? The moment she found him after so many years or torment and abuse, the moment she fell into his arms and wept tears of joy?

She couldn't say for sure. Just that his massages had only made the lure to him stronger, deepening the confusion, multiplying the questions. She needed a clear head, a clear conscious. She needed answers to questions she didn't know how to ask. She needed something to quiet the shame, yet satisfy the craving.

Sansa _needed_ her brother.

She didn't know why, and in what way. Just that she did. And she needed to feel fine about needing him. She was conscious of the loud voices within, screaming at her, making her uncomfortable in her own head. But she could also hear the faint but confident voice of The Red Woman.  _My door is always open for you, Sansa Stark._

The witch had given Jon his life back, given Sansa her brother back. It was her ointment, her magic that was responsible for giving Sansa her body back, and the promise of beauty too.

Incidentally, this made the Witch culpable for these thoughts, and feelings, and questions that troubled her. It was the witch's fault, Sansa reasoned. It was The witch that owed her clarity. The witch that needed to answer the difficult questions of _why_ , and _how_ , and _what next?_

If Melisandre was fearful of opening her door to the unknown in the dead of night, none of it showed on her face. She opened the door wide, an assured smirk to her face, her eyes rested and awake. The sly arrogance only made Sansa more irritated, more weary. She made herself remember the nasty things The Red Woman was accused of - that she murdered Renly, that she tried seducing her brother and abandoned her king. _Even if her magic is real, she can't be trusted_ , Sansa thought as Melisandre invited her and Ghost out of the cold and into the bedchamber.

"May I offer you a cup of mint tea?" Melisandre smiled, motioning to the steaming pot that made the air of the room warm and muggy.

Sansa was well aware that offers of food or drink to guests were supposed to be met with a 'yes please' and 'thank you.' Mother would always make her eat or drink whatever she was offered, even if she had no hunger or thirst. Very rarely was it ever acceptable to reject the offer. But in the event that you had to say no, you had to make it a sweet and gentle no, thanking them kindly for their hospitality.

But Sansa Stark was in no mood to be polite, or thank The Red Woman for anything. Mother wasn't around to chastise her for being rude. Further, this wasn't the Queen or a Lady of a respectable house or even the Mother of a lowly house. She was no septa, no servant of any god she kept. She was a servant of some stupid foreign god, a witch that couldn't be trusted, and had probably brewed a wicked tea of evil that she offered to unsuspecting idiots.

And where did having manners and being respectful get her anyway? In the clutches of her enemies? Beaten and raped and humiliated, forced into this predicament where she needed her bastard brother to heal boils and welts from her arms, and sores from softer places.

"No," Sansa spoke.

No 'thank you' to sweeten the rejection. Just a no, staring hard at her, defiant and feisty, like her sister Arya would have been.The cold no did nothing to extinguish the fire of The Red woman, as her smirk only grew. She was a stunningly beautiful woman, Sansa admitted to herself. Looking into her eyes was nearly as seductive as staring into flames. It made her proud that Jon had not given in to his lust and taken her. She didn't deserve her brother.

"What brings you here at this late hour?" Melisandre asked as she tightened her red robe.

"You said your door was always open to me," Sansa answered before turning away and looking upon the table that contained The Red Woman's curiosities. Red vials, and blue canisters, and green bottles, and white jars. Some of them were filled to the top with powders or potions, while others were nearly empty. But there was no sign of another blue vial, with the deep blue ointment that had healed her.  "Do all Red Priest use magic as you do?"

"Not all of God's servants are as traveled or diligent as I am," Melisandre answered.

Sansa rolled her eyes at the cryptic answer. "You didn't answer my question. What does travel have to do with using magic?"

"One needs knowledge to use magic, sweet girl," The Red Woman said as she walked toward her, that damned smirk about her face, her hands tucked inside hidden sleeves of her robe. "It took many, many years of travel to distant lands to gather the ingredients to make these powders and potions." She removed a hand from the sleeve and placed it upon a white jar full of brown powder. "Many years of meeting people, living with them, speaking their tongues, trading secrets. Many more years to learn how to properly use all that I gathered. Most, they grow weary, and tired, and old long before they travel enough, gather enough knowledge to truly make a difference."

"Many years," Sansa echoed sarcastically. "Right. You look no older than my mother did last I saw her."

"Looks can be deceiving," she smiled, so satisfied with herself. "And deception is one of the many tools the Lord of Light has given me."

"And doesn't your Lord also give you visions?" Sansa threw at her, remembering that Jon had told her that The Red Woman saw Stannis winning the battle against The Boltons in her flames. "Wasn't Stannis supposed to be your savior reborn? He couldn't even save himself. Lady Brienne saw him in the snow after The Boltons crushed him - defeated, broken, alone, pinned to a tree. And my Knight sentenced him to death for crimes you supported. Then took his head with what remained of my fathers sword. You were wrong."

The harsh rebuke felt good as it left her mouth, as did seeing Melisandre so suddenly shaken. She could see that she was touching an open wound, mentioning her dead king.

"You're right," Melisandre admitted in a moment of humility. "I was wrong. Stannis was not The Prince That Was Promised. I led many people astray. Many perished because I was wrong, I admit. But I was wrong, my Lord never is."

"There is no difference. You were wrong. And now you presume to sentence my brother to the same fate?" Sansa accused. "Jon's not your savior or your promised prince. He's not-"

"Your brother was dead and is now alive," Mel interrupted her, as if it pained her to hear any more doubt. "I prayed for his return and The Lord brought him back."

"Your magic brought him back!"

"My magic?" Melisandre scoffed, seeming much more unhinged than before, as if she could no longer hold up her facade of unflinching hubris. "You believe all of this is by my own hands?"

"I don't believe in your god. I believe in you. I see you. I hear you. I can touch you," Sansa argued as she pressed her finger into her shoulder. "I know you had a shadow murder Renly with my mother there to witness the crime. And if you could use magic to murder a man then you could use magic to heal one." Sansa turned away from Melisandre and stared at the table full of Melisandre's magic. "I can feel your magic within my skin, healing me here as I speak."

There was a long pause before The Red Woman finally spoke. "The Boltons harmed you..."

"Did you see that in your fires?" Sansa mocked.

"No," she answered as if the question had been sincere. "The Lord did now show me what was happening behind those walls - just a great battle in the snow. Victory against the Boltons. Their flayed man banners lowered -their sigils burning."

"Victory?" Sansa almost choked on her laugh. "Have you ever backed a victor in a battle? Stannis was the greatest military leader in the Seven Kingdoms. Yet you led him into nothing but crushing defeats. I happened to be there for both of them." Sansa shook her head, reflecting on both battles, and the night The Hound offered to take her with him. "I escaped from the second one. I should have fled the first one."

"It's said that you threw yourself from the battlements of Winterfell," Melisandre said with sympathy in her voice. "I can only imagine the horrors you must have endured that forced a highborn girl like you to jump for freedom."

"Well your Lord of Light wasn't there to save me."

"And neither were your old gods or the seven," The Red Woman said as a matter of fact.

"If anything that makes them all false," Sansa spat. "It doesn't make yours more true."

Melisandre smiled then, a fiery and satisfied smile.

"Does my blasphemy amuse you?"

"No, it's not that. It's just - your fire for revenge burns so hot that I can feel it heating my own skin," she said, reaching to touch Sansa's face.

Sansa pushed her arm away.

"No, that's just your hot pot of tea," Sansa quipped sarcastically.

She took a few steps away from the table and walked around the room, gathering her thoughts, unsure why she was so angry, and why she was directing all of it at this Red Priestess. Perhaps she hated clergymen and women. Perhaps she hated all of the gods. Or perhaps she was beginning to hate herself for having such wicked thoughts swirling in her head. "Jon accidentally dropped your vial of healing ointment, wasted it all over the floor."

"It wasn't wasted if it healed your scars," The Red Woman smiled.

"No," Sansa shook her head, walking near her neatly made bed. "Not all of my scars are healed. Pieces of myself are still ruined - still ugly, still painful." By the time she had paced the entire room and made it back to the table, she sighed. "I need more of your ointment, Melisandre."

"You're conflicted," The Red Woman said softly, burning her eyes into Sansa's face. "Why?"

Sansa scanned the table of vials and picked one up to examine it. "I feel like I shouldn't want your magic. There's something...wrong about it." She felt a shiver go up her spine, and heat from within the places that Jon had just massaged, especially between her thighs. The cold burn felt so good. She placed the vial back on the table. "The things it makes me feel, the things I think when I smell it, the way it sticks to me, makes me want more."

"Sansa," Melisandre called with alluring confidence, seducing Sansa to stare into her fiery eyes. "Would you like to know the secrets?"

She took a moment to breathe and thought about the feelings that stirred whenever Jon massaged her. _Even if her magic is real, she can't be trusted_ , she made herself remember before answering "Yes."

The Red Woman took a knee and reached under the table. She came back up with a small oak chest that she placed on top of the table. She produced a key from a hidden sleeve in her robe and placed it into a keyhole, unlocking the chest. It surprised Sansa that Melisandre was going to show her these secrets, even after she'd been so mean and rude to her.

Why was she showing her this?

She held the question in her throat and watched intently as she opened the chest, revealing even more jars, vials, and canisters.

"The things in this chest could sell for a fortune," The Red Woman said as she reached into the chest to pull out a jar of a clear liquid. "Most of them are natural wonders found throughout the world. The Lord of Light led me to distant lands for most, but this here was found in my own land of Asshai."

"The Shadow Lands," Sansa recalled.

Melisandre had already opened the jar before she acknowledged Sansa's comment with a nod. "Many seekers of the higher mysteries come to Asshai to practice the arts of magic, spells, potions. This odorless, colorless, flavorless oil is particularly good as a base for ointments - very versatile. It absorbs deeply into most anything."

"Except glass jars," Sansa pointed out the obvious.

"Except glass jars," Melisandre said before pouring a drop of the ointment into her palm. Within seconds, the thick drop melted into water. "It's most useful quality is how thin it spreads when it kisses our bodies heat."

Sansa remembered how Jon had only needed a single drop of the ointment to cover large sections of her scarred body. "One drop is enough."

"Two is too much," Melisandre completed the rhyme while reaching for another jar containing black leaves and opening the lid. "These leaves are found in the jungles of Yi Ti. You can dry them out and crumble the leaves into a fine powder or boil and juice the leaves into a liquid. They've been used for centuries in the country to relax muscles, especially after a long travel or hard day of work. I've used the liquid for my own baths. I used the powder to loosen my tight muscles when I hiked deep into the Bone Mountain, looking to learn it's secrets. I found that the most hardened men in those mountains routinely chewed on a spicy flower bud that grew in the region."

The Red Woman picked up a clear vial, tightly shut with a cloudy substance trapped inside. "It's terribly spicy - some men have wanted their tongues cut out of their mouths after chewing one." She wiggled the vial to stir the substance. "When ingested, the juice provides a very warm and pleasurable feeling in your belly, much like wine, but without the drunkenness."

She yanked the pull off and almost immediately Sansa could taste the spice on her tongue, just from smelling it. "Gods, that is awful." Sansa twisted her face into a grimace and coughed to rid herself of that aroma and taste. "Tell me you don't use this vile flower juice."

"I found no use for the vile flower until many years later when I met a necromancer from The Secret City of Nefer," she said as she thankfully plugged the top back into the vial of that foul juice. "He was a godless man that was more interested in the dead than the living. He came to Asshai to study without consequence. He wanted to unlock the secrets to pain, life, and death. But he spent much of his day torturing screaming men and women, poking them with needles, and other horrors. I didn't think much of him until he revealed a unique numbing oil that he himself had concocted." Melisandre pulled out a vial of this supposed numbing oil and set it on the table. "With this oil applied evenly over a man's body, he could boil him alive and ask the man questions, no pain at all. Though his pursuits were wicked and carnal, I cannot deny him this brilliance. I seduced him with a smoke of my own and learned the secrets of his oil."

Melisandre examined the vial of oil before looking at Sansa. "It feels very cold to the touch, and even dulls spice and bitterness."

"So it could dull the spice of the juice," Sansa discerned, looking back at the vial on the table that contained the spicy liquid. "My most excruciating sores didn't hurt whenever the ointment was used on me. This was the soothing cold that numbed the pain." _But is this what made the massages feel so good?_

"Indeed. But perhaps most important, the oil doesn't interfere with the effects of any other ingredient. This is what allowed me to use it in the ointment. Not too much, for too much could prevent you from feeling anything ever again, but just enough for the cold numbness that stops pain."

"You could help a lot of people with this," Sansa said after studying the vial, and looking back up at The Red Woman. "This is way more powerful than Milk of The Poppy, and without the side effects. Why haven't you made a lot more than this vial and spread your knowledge to others so maesters from here to Dorne could aid others in pain?"

"Oh sweet girl," Melisanre grinned. "Even if I wanted to do that, it's no longer possible. The Lord of Light placed it here and then took it away. Many of the key ingredients to make the oil have been gone for hundreds of years." She reached into the chest and pulled out another jar, this containing a small bit of deep blue liquid. "The secret recipe for this liquid was lost centuries ago. I have not an inkling how it was made."

"What does it do?"

"It heals," Melisandre said with a hint of sadness to her voice. "Blemishes, scars, wounds, wrinkles. While the Alchemist Guild in King's Landing were creating the green liquid we would call wildfire, the more peaceful artists in Naath were creating liquid healing - a deep blue, with a deep burn. This liquid, applied daily could make old men and women appear as youthful as their children. But the magic, the recipe, the knowledge - it's all gone. The people decimated by slavery."

"Is this what you use to deceive?" Sansa asked, scrutinizing her pale face, and failing to spot a single imperfection. "To appear youthful despite your _many years_ of laborious travel?"

"No - this is much too valuable to use on myself," Melisandre quickly said. "As far as I know, this is the last jar of healing left in the world. I prefer not to speak of what I had to do to acquire it - alas. The Lord of Light willed me to possess this last jar for a reason. It isn't my healing that is important."

Sansa felt as if those words had been pointed and shot at her like arrows. She didn't like the way her comment made her feel, as if she owed Melisandsre something.  "It seems to me this blue liquid was the only thing you needed to heal my brothers scars. Not anything else."

"This is true... I didn't create the ointment _just_ to heal scars," she said. "Do you know where the Sweet Lotus Vale is?"

Sansa wished she would have been taught more about the world outside of Westeros. Melisandre was trying to overpower her with knowledge. But she wasn't going to let this well traveled woman intimidate her. "It's in the Summer Isles."

"Yes, but which Island?" she pressed.

"I was groomed to know The North, not some exotic island."

"I don't mean to shame you. It's just, the island of Jhala is beautiful. So is the city of Ebonhead. The Lord led me there and I learned many things about love - the people there loved deeply and truly. They loved their trees, their birds, their waters."

"And each other," Sansa broke in, thinking of her tutelage with Littlefinger. "They worship sex."

"Their gods are false like all of the others, but I can see how people in a land called the Isles of Love could come to worship the act of love. They had many secrets of the island that naturally led to devotion to their carnal desires."

"So what secrets did you steal from them?" Sansa asked, straight-faced.

If the mean-spirited question vexed The Red Woman, she took it in stride without letting any offense ruin her pretty face.

She reached into the chest and pulled out a jar of what appeared to be honey. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue, which Sansa correctly guessed was the Summer Tongue. "Translates to Golden Blush," Melisandre smiled before opening the jar and dabbing a bit of the honey on her finger. "The bees in the region produce a very sweet honey." She licked her finger like she imagined a whore would lick a man, and soon after her pale skin flushed red. "Men and women eat honeycombs before climbing into bed with their lovers. In their tongue they call it - _aphrodisiac_. It helped to swell their nipples, strengthen their sex, make their bodies more sensitive, more ripe for pleasure."

Was this what her body had been exposed to? Something exotic that made her body swollen, sensitive, and erect? Is this what Jon had experienced? A strengthening of his sex? A drug that made him more apt to feel pleasure whenever he touched her? But before she could voice these questions, or answer them herself, The Red Woman was already speaking about the flower that the bees swarmed to - The Maiden's Flower, translated to Common.

"Many smoked the flower in a pipe, others burned it as incense, or created a thick and sweet milk to go along with the honey." Sansa couldn't help but think of 'maiden's milk' which forced her into a gag as Melisandre continued on with the various uses these people made with their native flower. "The flower heightened taste, touch, smell - helped the fire burn brighter," she went on. "Their temple priests, and spellsingers sought to create a perfume from the flower- an overwhelming, deeply personal fragrance that could be used in ceremonies, weddings, celebrations. "

"And long story short you stole the perfume to use with your ointment," Sansa said. She wanted to seize this moment to get answers. "Jon told me the ointment smelled like caves, and snow. To me, it smelled of blood, and smoke, and wine. But you told me it smelled like years of lovers and warm nights. What is the truth?"

"It's all truth," Melisandre said as she left the table to tend to the pot of tea. "Or all false, depending on how you see to interpret it." She poured a cup and stirred it with a wooden spoon before offering it to Sansa.

"I'm fine, thank you," Sansa rejected politely this time, walking towards her. "I want to know about the perfume - the ointment of the blue vial. Why it smells different for each of us."

Melisandre brought the cup of tea to her nose. She shut her eyes and breathed in the steam before exhaling with an easy smile, as if the scent of the tea brought her great joy. When she opened her eyes, Sansa swore she saw them sparkling with tears. "Are there any smells so dear to you that they provoke memories of your past?"

"No - I don't think so," Sansa answered without giving it serious thought. She wanted clear answers, not more riddles.

"No smells at all?" The Red Woman asked, insisting on getting lost in this distraction.  "It can be anything. There has to be at least one scent that remind you of a significant moment, or person, or experience. Maybe a-"

"I said no," Sansa snapped. She was growing impatient with the vagueness of this conversation.

Melisandre noted Sansa's frustration with a short nod before taking a sip of the tea, not even stopping to blow on it first. She took a seat in the chair near the fireplace and stared into the flames for a few silent moments before speaking again.

"I wasn't always... _The Red Woman,"_ she mocked the name they used to demean her. "It seems so long ago but I was once a girl. Naive, playful, happy." The Red Woman's utterance of the word 'happy' only seemed to add to her melancholy. "Like you, I lost my mother when I was a child. Not from treachery no, but a fever that spread viciously through the free cities."

"Free cities?" Sansa questioned. "I thought you were born in Asshai?"

"No one is born in Asshai." She tasted from her cup and looked back into the flames, as if the details of her story were stored there. "My father was a follower of R'hllor - not very devout, not after my mothers death. He was too angry and lonely to look after me with care, so my mothers mother took on the responsibility. She was a very kind, warm, affectionate woman. She taught me to read the holy texts, taught me to sing the prayers. She would even take me into the city to buy toys, dolls, books. Even a high harp imported from your country that I never truly learned to play."

Sansa reflected on her high-harp lessons, and how quickly she had taken to playing the instrument as a girl. Arya had struggled mightily, but like the other arts, what Sansa produced was graceful and pretty. Ramsay once asked her to play the harp, but Sansa had lied to him, insisting that she didn't know how.

_Tell me the truth or I'll beat it out of you. I will not tolerate a lying whore for a wife._

But she refused to budge, swearing on the memory of her father, swearing to the old gods and new - maintaining that she never learned how, even while he hit her naked skin with leather. When he was truly satisfied that she wasn't lying, he told her that he would bring in some singers to give her the lessons that her father should have provided.

Fortunately she was able to flee before those ever took place.

He wanted to take everything she loved away from her but she managed to save her love of playing, as well as her maidenhead. She vowed to herself then that she would again play the harp, and sing, and dance - he wouldn't make her hate the things she was good at.

"My father took another wife eventually," Melisandre said, snatching Sansa out of her hateful thoughts toward her husband. "Young and beautiful and fertile, though that woman had no love for me. Fortunately my grandmother shielded me from the loathing, almost to the point that I didn't notice it. Almost. But my grandmother was old and her mind brittle, and day by day I noticed her losing memories. Small things at first, like forgetting what an apricot was called, or the words to her favorite songs, or what day it was. And she would get very irritable when she was corrected. I knew it was truly serious the day she stubbornly kept calling me by my mothers name. "

Hodor's great-grandmother Old Nan immediately filled Sansa's thoughts. She was always forgetting things, too old to truly ever know what she was talking about, though it never stopped her from always telling Bran tales. Sansa had remembered wishing she never lived long enough to be that blind and frail and ugly.

"I became her caretaker, not because I was ready, I was still a girl, but my father and his wife didn't seem to care about the old woman losing her mind. I loved her. She was all that I had. I cooked her breakfast, and supper, and got up in the middle of the night to clean her bed sheets whenever she messed herself. I bathed her, I dressed her, and combed her hair, and fixed whatever she would accidentally, or sometimes intentionally break. It was like tending to a very large and angry child. I went to bed every night afraid of being murdered. There were nights where I would awaken to her standing over me with a knife, for she thought I was a stranger in her bedchamber. And other nights she would escape into the night and wander across the city streets wearing nothing but her nightgown. I'd find her sitting alone, weeping, or singing, or singing while weeping."

Melisandre had an ugly reputation, she was either despised or feared by most everyone at Castle Black. And for good reason. She was a witch, a practitioner of dark magic, a vagabond on foreign land, a murderer, a liar. She was a woman that could never be trusted.

But as Sansa listened to her story, she felt herself feeling sorry for her. It was the last thing she had expected to feel when she came knocking on her door, wanting answers for her conflicted feelings.

"I'd plead for her to trust me, to let me take her home, but she'd kick and scream and protest. I'd beg ' _please granny, come home with me, please come, father will get rid of you, just stop fighting me and come home_.' Sometimes I would be so exasperated that I would berate her ' _If you don't stop fighting me I will drag you home by your hair!'_ while pulling her by the arms so hard they popped.

Then she would cry, _'You're so mean to me Melly. Why do you treat me like this?'_ and then I would feel horrible, like some ungrateful bitch that would say such nasty things to the only woman that cared about me.

And I would cry.

When I would finally get her tucked in bed, I would lay with her and sing prayers. And in those quiet moments she would say " _Melly in the morning, we're going to go into town and I'm going to buy you something nice. Some sweets from Lys, or a book of great stories, or how about going to a puppet show? You're so nice to me. I love you.'_ And that would make me cry too."

The moment Melisandre disappeared into her cup of tea, Sansa assumed she was witnessing the Red Woman's descent into tears. She thought to say something nice, or comforting as she took a seat near her by the fire but instead asked "Are you okay?"

But as she asked her question, she looked closer and saw that the Red Woman wasn't crying at all. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing in the aroma of the tea.

Melisandre opened her eyes and stared hard at Sansa. "It was the smell of mint that brought my grandmother back to me. My fathers wife brought home a new soap smelling of mint from Pentos and I used it to bathe my grandmother. She had forgotten my name again but on this night she was letting me soap her hair without fight, for this I was grateful. I poured a cup of the soapy water over her head and it was as if she had been baptized by a god. She remembered me, and everything before me.

She told me the scent of the soap reminded her of her childhood, when she would drink mint tea with her father. It was like a miracle, how quickly she remembered, and how strong the memories were. I went into the market the next morning and bought mint leaves."

"And did they save her memories?" Sansa asked, curiously as she too breathed in the strong scent of mint that occupied the room.

"They did. I carried the leaves with me everywhere I went. Any time she would begin to forget, I'd crush them in my hands and hold my fingers to her nose. I learned to make mint tea to give her in the morning and at supper. I bought mint soap and a mint oil. But my fathers wife didn't appreciate my superfluous spending. She was with child now. That mattered more than an aging woman's memory. Even worse, the price of mint inflated suddenly after disputes between the traders. So I sold my dolls, my toys, my books, even my high harp so I could buy the now expensive soaps, and oils, the leaves. But I ran out of things of value to sell. So I stole from my fathers wife to buy more leaves. And that was all the excuse she needed to get rid of me."

The uneasy silence forced Sansa to consider the Red Woman's story, her life as a girl, and what she had become as a woman. And within this quiet reflection she found empathy. "Were you sold?"

"To a temple," Mel confirmed. "My father was too religious to sell me to a comfort house even though the high coin for a young maid tempted his wife, but he convinced himself that giving me to The Lord would be a holy thing. It allowed him to live with his guilt as he moved on to taking care of his new family."

"And what about your grandmother?" Sansa asked, feeling like she already knew the answer. She wanted a happy ending but knew the world did not provide many of those. "Why didn't she stop them from selling you?"

"She forgot I was someone worth fighting for," she said with a somber sip of her tea. "At least until we made it to lot seven.  _Melony I'm sorry! Melony forgive me!_   _Melony come back!_ But it was too late. I belonged to The Red Temple."

"And you still do," Sansa noted, pitying her continued slavery.

"I've never told anyone that story before," she responded with a friendly smile after setting down the cup of finished tea. Sansa couldn't help but wonder why she had been chosen as the first. "I know you won't understand but I'm glad the Lord allowed my father to do what he did. He may not have had good reasons, but all things work to the glory of the Lord." She poured more tea into a different cup and placed it on a sauce plate with a slice of lemon, before turning to Sansa with a smile and again offering it to her.

"You're right. I don't understand," Sansa said before she nodded, finally accepting her hospitality. "And I still don't understand what your story had to do with the Summer Isles, or their perfume, or the scent of the ointment." She took the cup of hot tea from Melisandre, still feeling as if she shouldn't trust her, but trusting her _this one time_.

The hotness of the cup felt good as she pressed her fingers to the handle. And she had an even greater appreciation for the minty aroma that made her nose feel good, and gave her tongue a thirst.

"Smells are powerful gifts Sansa. They arouse memories of places we've been, places we've left. People we've loved, people we've lost."

Sansa stared at her cup of tea, or more specifically, the slice of lemon sitting to the side on the sauce plate. She lifted the cup to her mouth and blew softly, thinking about places she left, and people she lost. "Lemons remind me of my mother. The smell, the taste, everything." She was sipping the tea by the time she felt her conscious urging her not to trust The Red Woman, not to tell her any secrets. But the hot tea made her feel good and warm, as did the thoughts she was having about Catelyn Stark.

"Whenever we would get a new shipment of lemons from the south, she would take me to the kitchen and have the cooks bake us fresh lemon cakes. It used to smell so wonderful." Just thinking about the smell suddenly transformed her to Winterfell, as the cook Gage and his daughter Turnip sliced and juiced the lemons, and mixed eggs, and butter, and sugar into a bowl. "We would spend the day together. No Arya, or Bran, or even little Rickon. Just us. We'd sing songs, read poetry, talk about her time in Riverrun, plan my wedding. And even though she would publicly tell me not to gossip, when we were alone, we would laugh about the people in the courtyard. I don't think I ever truly appreciated it at the time."

"We never usually do," The Red Woman commented, her fiery eyes fixed on Sansa.

Suddenly she felt very conscious of being watched, being listened to. But try as she could to remind herself that Melisandre could not be trusted, she still found herself telling her what she kept so near. "I remember one afternoon I spent with her, a few months before father brought home the direwolf pups. It was raining hard outside, and I was bored.

Father had taken the boys hunting. Mother was taking a nap. Arya and Bran were listening to ghost stories from Old Nan. Rickon was riding Hodor around like a horse. I wasn't speaking to my friend Jeyne because of something stupid she'd said about Robb. "

Sansa let out an embarrassed laugh before sipping from the cup. "Bran invited me to listen to Old Nan's stories so I wouldn't be bored. I sat with them on the floor, but her stories were scary and awful, so I asked ridiculous questions to try and get her to admit they were fake. I asked enough questions, and sighed, and rolled my eyes enough times that Arya popped up screaming _'If you don't wanna listen then stop ruining it for us and leave'_.

I pointed my finger at her and yelled _'These stories are fake and stupid - and you're stupid for listening to them.'_ and so I left to bother someone else. I told Hodor he smelled worse than a butt and I demanded he go to the baths before he offended our home with his stench any longer.

I tried to get Rickon to let me brush his hair and sing him songs but he was mad at me for being mean to Hodor. He went to listen to stories with Arya and Bran. Looking back, I can't blame him."

Sansa knew that for as sweet as she could be, she had been equally rotten as a child. It was a guilt she felt every time she dwelled too long on the past. She should have been nicer to Hodor, and the cooks, and the kennelmaster, and her septa, and Old Nan, and her friends, and especially her siblings - Jon too.

For this, some part of her always felt as if she was being punished by the gods. It hurt to think that every unanswered prayer of hers was to account for all of the awful things she'd said or done to well meaning people just because they weren't comely, or a noble.

Perhaps she had wasted all of her prayers on stupid things, petty things, things that eventually came true - like when she wanted nothing more than to go to the capital as Prince Joffrey's betrothed.

They gave her what she begged them for, but now the gods weren't listening to her.

"I ended up making my way to the kitchen," Sansa said, trying to get back to the good memories, and not dwell on the guilty feelings. "I told the cooks to make me cakes and then went outside and sat alone in the rain. I know it sounds stupid," she shook her head as she squeezed lemon juice into the tea. "Me sitting in the cold rain, sobbing. What I would trade to go back to that moment and slap myself. I had no real worries, but I guess I made it up in my head that I was alone and no one loved me. But it was as if my mother could hear my cries because she showed up in the rain, asking me what was wrong.

I told her all dramatic and childish _'No one likes me,"_ and she looked at me with those sincere eyes of hers and said _'No one? When did I stop liking you?"_

She couldn't help but cringe at her response. _'When Rickon came along'_ I told her like a little brat. I didn't really mean it. And she could sense it. She smirked at me and whispered _'Between you and me Sansa, you're the only one I actually do like. Rickon cries too much, and Bran asks too many questions, and Robb, well Robb is a boy, and boys are obnoxious and silly.'_

And I looked at her, wiping my eyes and asked _"And what about Arya?"_ And she frowned her nose and said _"Seven hells, Arya smells like a butt - and when she sings it sounds like a cat is_ _dying_." My mother never made me laugh so hard. Then she leaned in and whispered  _I would leave the rest of them in the rain to cry, but you, my talented, tall, sweet girl. Only you would get me out of my sleep to come into this cold rain and see what was the matter."_

Sansa ate the drained meat of the lemon slice and relished the bitterness before dropping the peel into the cup of tea. "I knew she was just being silly to cheer me up but I so appreciated her that day, for giving me kindness when I didn't deserve any, for choosing me to spend the rest of her day with. We ate our cakes in the sept, the only place we knew no one would bother us. And we sipped tea with honey and lemon slices. I was eating a whole lemon slice when she began laughing. She told me that when all of us were little, father would give us lemon slices to taste so he could get a laugh at our funny faces. The first time baby Robb had a lemon, he cried from the bitterness and threw it back at father," Sansa said, which even brought a smile to The Red Woman's face.

"Mother said Arya would frown and gag, cringing even as she kept trying to eat it. Of all of us, I was the only babe that enjoyed the lemon, eating it without a grimace, as if it was sweet and delicious. Apparently this amused my father to no end. He would gather Maester Luwin, and Jory, and Rodrik, and mother, hand me a slice and say _'Look at my sweet little girl eating that lemon like like it's sugar.'"_

Sansa became aware of the big smile on her face when she stopped reflecting and paid attention to the even bigger smile coming from The Red Woman. Her pride suddenly felt like shame, as she wondered if that was the only time her father had ever been truly proud of her. She blinked away the last image she had of him at the Great Sept of Balor and took another sip of the tea. "I've never told anyone _that story_ so we're even. You still haven't told me why any of this matters."

"You've just expressed why it matters, sweet girl. Smells connect us to our most intimate emotions, our dearest memories. The lovers in the Summer Isles understood that well. They experimented with their flowers, and the seeds, and their honey, and their spells, hoping to create a perfume that could always connect them to what aroused them most. But what was the smell of lust? It's deeply personal. How could they capture it's essence so that what burned for one would burn for another?

I don't know how, but they captured the scent of lust, and put it into a bottle. For some, it smells like the breath of their lover, for others, the fragrance of their hair, or the heat of their juices. It could be a location. A cave beyond the wall was likely where your brother lost himself with the wildling girl. Whatever scents are tied to our strongest moments of passion and lust, whatever scent lights our fire, that is what you will smell whenever the perfume hits your nose."

"I haven't had any experiences of lust and passion," Sansa disputed. "I haven't experienced a lovers breath, a location where I lost myself with a person, or any scent that _'lit my fire'."_

"And what about the blood, and the wine, and the smoke?" Melisandre asked. "If you smelled anything at all, then that was _your moment of lust_."

"That doesn't make any sense. The only time I ever smelled that foul odor was Blackwater - when your King was defeated and the water was set aflame with wildfire. And there were no moments of lust, just moments of despair. I felt helpless - I was afraid I would be raped, taken against my will."

"And that excited you," she said as if she knew her.

"Excited me?" Sansa barked, as images of The Hound pinning her against the wall flashed before her eyes. "Are you mad? How could that fear excite a young girl?"

"We can't help what lights our flame. If we could, things would be easier, love would not be as complicated."

"There's nothing complicated about this," Sansa said, slamming her cup of tea down and standing up. She could still feel the hot stink of his breath against her face. She could still see the blood dripping down his cheeks - blood that didn't belong to him. She could still hear his coarse, harsh voice, barking at her like the dog he was, telling her to get used to looking at killers like him. 

_Stannis is a killer. The Lannisters are killers. Your father was a killer. Your brother is a killer. Your sons will be killers someday. The world is built by killers.  
_

"I didn't enjoy that night," Sansa insisted, affronted at the suggestion, and the implications.

"I don't think you enjoyed it. We don't always enjoy our lust or excitement - it can be very confusing, revolting. Sometimes what we fear is what also lights our fires. Sometimes you wonder how it's possible to want something so bad, that's so wrong, that makes you feel so good. We can't control it, sometimes we enjoy what's bitter even more than what's sweet."

"I tell you a secret and you immediately use it against me," Sansa spat, disgusted at Melisandre, but also the girl that had been pinned by The Hound. She couldn't stop herself from remembering her 14-year-old self trembling before the Hound. A doll in her hands, signifying her purity, wet heat dripping from her womanhood, signifying she was anything but. She blinked away the thought and became defensive. "You concocted this evil ointment to seduce Jon. You didn't care about his scars - you just wanted to trick him into sleeping with you."

"That I did," she freely admitted, seemingly with no shame. "At first I tried just the perfume on my tits and womanhood. He smelled me. He wanted what he smelled."

"But he _didn't want you_!" she threw at her.

"He didn't want me," she agreed. "Nobody would truly want me if they knew what I was. I'm not proud of the tricks and the illusions. But I'm a vassal to the Lord of Light, so I must do his will."

"Why would your god want you to fuck my brother?"

"My magic is stronger here at The Wall. I thought I could have ended this battle for Stannis before he even marched - the same way I ended the battle with Renly without any bloodshed."

"You create shadows by seducing men..." Sansa put it together. "That's what you do. The healing was just a disguise - an excuse to get him alone, relax him, drain him of his essence. You would have created an evil shadow in the shape of my brother."

"I would have killed Roose and Ramsay Bolton before they could have done you any harm. Before they could have captured your brother Rickon. You see how it's all how you interpret it?" She stood up from her chair and met Sansa face to face. "I would have ended this petty war in Winterfell so we could focus on the real war - the only battle that truly matters."

"With Jon as your leader, right?" she spat. "You brought him back broken, Melisandre. He didn't see a Lord of Light in death. He saw no light at all. And now that he's just beginning to recover his own identity - you're in his head trying to push him to be someone he isn't. You were wrong about Stannis. You're wrong about Jon too."

"I've questioned that," Melisandre as she looked deep into Sansa's eyes. "I questioned it all, even my own purpose. I lost faith whenever Jon died. And even after I helped bring him back, I felt cold, lost, still lacking the faith that has driven me all of my years. I prayed, begged The Lord to give me direction. Help me to see the truth in the flames. Was Jon The Prince That Was Promised? Where was Lightbringer? And Nissa Nissa? Did I still have a purpose in this Great War? And if so, what was it?"

"And what did your Lord show you this time?" Sansa pressed.

"You," she answered, pulling a new blue vial from a hidden sleeve in her robe. "He showed me your scars, and showed me your healing. I saw the vial spill on the floor, and that you would seek my doors for more ointment. So I made another batch this morning."

"Do you think I'm some type of pervert?" Sansa barked with an indignant laugh. "Now that I know what your ointment does, I will never touch it again."

"And what about your remaining scars? The pieces of yourself that are still ugly, still painful?"

"They'll remain ugly and painful," Sansa fired back. "I'm not so desperate that I would trade my honor for beauty."

"Your desperation is what led you to Castle Black - your drive, your light in the darkness - that's what Jon admires most-"

"Stop doing that," Sansa screamed. "You don't know me. You don't know him."

"I know his wick burned out when he died and the very breath of life wasn't enough to rekindle his flame. But you Sansa, your fire burns hot, and bright, and true. He sees it. I see it. He won't resist your flame like he did mine."

"What does that even mean?" Sansa took a subtle step away from the woman with that blue vial in her hands. "Are you suggesting.... you can't think that I would........with....my brother?"

"You and Jon are meant to _heal together_. I've seen it in the flames. You will use the blue vial again. You wi-"

"Fuck your flames. Fuck your ointment. Fuck your evil prophecies!" she shuffled away, repulsed my what the witch was saying, fearful of what it meant. "I'm going to tell Jon every nasty detail that you have revealed to me. And he will no longer suffer you to live within these walls."

"Sansa I'm just being honest with you. I don't judge-"

"I don't care," Sansa shouted. "You're an evil woman with a perverted nature. And I will have you hanged for what you have said about me and my brother."

She ran out of the bedchamber before The Red Woman could fill her head with anymore suggestions or wicked thoughts. Ghost followed closely behind as Sansa moved down the snowy steps "We have to find Jon," she told Ghost. "Do you know where he is boy? Do you? Lead me to him, boy. Go." The direwolf's ears and nose perked at the mention of finding Jon Snow and within moments Ghost began moving quickly into the courtyard.

Sansa held the sides of her dress and marched as quickly as she could after him. But her legs weren't moving as fast as her thoughts, and not nearly as fast as the direwolf. "Not so fast," she called as Ghost jumped over a barrel and continued darting through the courtyard with his nose to the ground. But even with him moving slower, Sansa still found it difficult to keep up.

Castle Black was in the shadow of a seven hundred foot wall, and it made everything in the courtyard appear darker. Even the snow looked a dull blueish grey. And Ghost's white fur blended in so well, she was having trouble following his movements. But she was determined to keep up, anxious to see her brother and expose Melisandre's lascivious plans. She marched angrily and must have made a false step for she found herself on her knees. She took short breaths before calling for Ghost, though she could no longer see him. Only when she stood up again did she feel the burning sensation of pain shooting through her knees.

"Ghost," she called out again. But her voice was hushed, she didn't want to wake up any sleeping brothers or bring any unwanted attention to herself. She brushed herself of icy earth and hurried along, now suddenly aware of her nakedness. She hadn't bothered to put on smallclothes, or even socks when she decided to chase after Jon when he fled their massage. Her dress and boots weren't nearly enough to keep her warm from the winds that crashed against her as she went deeper into the darkness of the courtyard. And the sudden realization that she was alone made the cold even more chilling.

She called for the direwolf once more before she stopped moving. She had no idea where she was going. And being out here alone was dangerous. She thought to turn around and go back to her bedchamber, she could talk to Jon in the morning. But would it be right to leave Ghost out by himself? Well, he shouldn't have ran off without her, she reasoned. Lady wouldn't have ran off like that.

She was near ready to leave when she heard something. She turned in place and saw a figure standing there, watching her. She couldn't make out who it was....or what it was. She had been a skeptical girl for most her years, but in that moment, more than any, she believed in ice demons. What if this was one of the wights Jon had spoken of? Those cold dead things that stalk the night? Jon said that they brought the cold with them - and it was bone chillingly cold, with a haunting darkness, and an icy mist surrounding her.

What if this wasn't a monster from beyond the wall, but a monster of man? A rapist, the ones Jon kept warning her of. What would one of these black brothers do to her if they found her alone, no small-clothes under her dress?

She fought competing instincts to scream for help and to hide behind a barrel, and just stood there without a word. The figure moved toward her, approaching with a confidence that told her they were not afraid of walking in the cold of darkness. But she didn't scream, or run away, hard as it was not to. If she couldn't stand up to the fears of Castle Black, how could she return to the horrors that awaited her in Winterfell? She had to be strong, capable, and brave - she wasn't a little girl that ran to hide any time she felt threatened.

"Who is there?" she asked to the approaching person or thing.

"I was going to ask you the same question."

The voice belonged to a man not a demon, and it was familiar though she couldn't quite put a face on it until he was standing in front of her. "Arron?"

The black brother looked at her for a moment. "Arron's my brother - my twin brother," he clarified. "What are you doing out here alone at this time a night? Are you lost?"

She felt the wind traveling up her dress, to her sex, and stomach, and breast, which made her shiver. She had to remind this man who she was, or more importantly, who Jon was. "I...was looking for my brother Jon - your Lord Commander."

He grunted a chuckle without smiling, still staring at her hard. "I thought Edd was our Lord Commander now."

Sansa wondered if perhaps this man was actually Arron, the letter carrier that she had promised to make new gloves for. He looked like Arron, sounded like Arron, even smelled like him. But his eyes looked harder, and his words felt cold. This man wasn't smitten with her as Arron had been. She didn't know if that was good or bad. "Do you know where Jon is?"

"He's keeping watch atop The Wall for the night," he scratched at his beard before looking around them, as if to check to see that they were truly alone. "I can take him a message for you if you'd like."

"Yes...that would be...I would like that," she stammered, both from the cold and the nervous feelings kicking at her. "Tell him to come see his sister. It's an urgent matter."

"I'm not sure if that would be right to say," the man said after chewing on her request a second. "That's how your brother was betrayed. His steward Olly came to him in the middle of the night and delivered a message for him to come see his Uncle Benjen. And I suppose you know what happened after that..." his words trailed off as he sucked in breath. "I could escort you back to your chamber. You really shouldn't be out here alone this late. There are lots of rapists here."

Him bringing up rape made her feel even more nervous - it meant he was thinking of her as a victim. "I'm not alone. My direwolf Ghost is around." They both looked around them, no sign of Ghost anywhere. "I just have to find him." She looked upon his face and made the decision to treat him as a friend, and not a foe. "So will you help me find him? Brother of Arron?"

"Aye - I will Sansa Stark. And my name is Emrick by the way." He extended his hand and she took it, noting that his gloves were different than the worn ones she'd seen Arron wearing. He truly was his twin.

Emrick retrieved an oil lantern and led her through the courtyard as they looked for the direwolf. She couldn't help wishing that she had asked Arron earlier why he had taken the black. Littlefinger always told her that information was useful, and allowed you to manipulate people to do your bidding. She didn't like being ignorant, not knowing who she was lending her trust to.

"So Arron says you and him are from the Fair Isle..." she remarked, to make conversation, but also to know more.

"Did he?" he chuckled, still looking toward the ground with the lantern, tracking paw prints.

"Is it not true?"

He chuckled again. "Arron is a dreamer."

"And a bit of a liar?" she asked as they moved closer towards The Wall.

"No - I wouldn't say liar. It's just, by Westerosi standards we aren't from the Fair Isle. By his own standards though, sure, we're from the Fair Isle - our mother was. But she was taken in a raid from Ironborn sailors. No one cared, not The King, or Tywin Lannister. The raid went punished, and we were born out at sea."

"So you're Ironborn."

"We weren't accepted by the Ironborn, and we were hardly welcomed with open arms when our mother brought us back to the Fair Island, stinking of salt and seaweed. So I don't know what we are, where we're from. It doesn't really matter - we're the Night's Watch. That's our only identity - sad as it is. Though it's a little sadder for him I reckon. He's the only one I know that volunteered to join this shit hole."

"Why did Arron take the black?" Sansa asked.

"I did something that left me with two choices. Lose my head or lose my freedom and I chose to head north. When my brother found out he begged one of the wandering crows to let him come with me. They thought it might be some kind of trick, and that we were going to plan an elaborate twin brother escape. But no, my brother is just a dreamer. He wasn't going to let me suffer this fate by myself."

He stopped in his tracks when he saw Ghost appear out of a shadow. Sansa embraced the direwolf, then chastised him for leaving her. Emrick stood back looking up at The Wall, and the great switchback staircase that was connected to it. "When I saw Jon earlier, he told me he was going to take the staircase to the top," he pointed. "Maybe your wolf was going to climb the steps as well to get to him."

Sansa stared up at the great piece of wood and metal that was stitched to the ice, twisting and stretching 700 feet above them. "Jon walked up this thing tonight? Instead of just taking the winch?"

"I thought it was odd as well," Emrick said.

"When you saw him...how was he?" Sansa asked.

"He seemed a little...disturbed. Bothered about something. Is everything alright?"

"Take me to the top," Sansa demanded, staring up into the sky and growing colder by just looking at the hulking piece of ice above her, where her brother was alone and disturbed over their intimate moment.

"My lady," Emrick began as he looked over her with this condescending grin on his face. "It's cold, and dark, and dangerous up there, especially at night. We don't have near the men to keep the top of The Wall well-lit with candles and fires burning." She understood then that unlike Arron, Emrick didn't take her very serious. Maybe he shouldn't have, considering how disheveled she must have looked as she held her arms together, shivering. But she still felt insulted.  "You're a fair girl, Sansa, but the Wall is no place for a fair girl wearing nothing but a pretty dress. Let me take you back to your bedchamber and get you tucked safely into bed."

"I jumped off the battlements of Winterfell. I trekked through an icy river, and in this same dress, ran dozens of miles through the wood during a blizzard while being pursued by flesh eating blood hounds. So offer me your cloak and lantern or not - but spare me your lectures. I'm a Stark. Take me to the top in the winch or me and my direwolf will climb these stairs to the top."

He looked her over for a few moments before turning his eyes to Ghost, who stared at him with an icy glare. "Well I'm not going to let you climb this thing," he sighed before giving her a nod and agreeing to let her use the lift. He led them to the platform without another word and handed over his cloak and lantern before opening the winch cage for her and Ghost.

The direwolf had to be coaxed inside by Sansa. She wondered if Ghost was afraid of heights, and if he was, would Jon be upset at her for bringing him. But before Sansa could change her mind, Emrick had activated the winch, and the heavy chains were rattling, lifting them off the ground. Though she had taken the trip up before, that experience provided her no comfort now. She was by herself this time, and it was in the shadow of night, and she was freezing despite being wrapped in Emrick's cloak. Ghost moved close to her legs, away from the edge of the cage. She knelt by his side and hugged his fur in an attempted to comfort him - and to comfort herself. "It's okay boy. We'll see Jon soon."

And the thought of seeing Jon both excited and scared her. How was she going to tell him?

_Jon, the ointment you used to heal the scars on my shoulders and arms...and thighs....and...the other place you touched. It was a trick of Melisandre - used to make the users want each other. She created it to seduce you._

How would he react to those words? For some reason, she saw Jon being more angry at her than he would be at Melisandre. _I did insist that he use the ointment on me that first time, even when it worried him._ Would he blame her for what he was feeling? Would he go back into his shell and not want anything to do with her again? She couldn't afford to break Jon again, not when he had finally found his will to fight.

The whistle of the wind distracted her from her thoughts, as she peaked to look down at the ground and tried to keep her heart from falling deeper into her stomach. The loud clink of cold chain, and the lumbering sound of heavy wood, meshed together with the sound of wind to create a terrifying song. She jumped with fright when the cage rattled and ice, snow, and dust fell in her hair.

Ghost's eyes were wide and uneasy, which made her feel bad for bringing him with her. She had to be strong, if only for him, and not cry or let him know that anything was wrong.

She brushed the ice and snow from his fur and smiled. "I bet you'll be the first wolf to ever step foot on top of The Wall - lucky you." She let him lick her fingers with his wet and warm tongue, just like Lady used to do. "Do you ever think about your siblings? Your brothers Grey Wind, Shaggydog, Summer - your sisters Lady, and Nymeria?"

He looked up at her with his dark grey eyes and licked his mouth. "Me and Jon, we're going to make sure you see at least one of them again - Shaggydog, Summer, maybe even Nymeria if she's out there somewhere. Would you like that? To reunite with your pack? Huh boy?" she rubbed his head.

The direwolf responded by leaning into her for a kiss, which felt good against her face and made her giggle, even though she was lying to the wolf. All of his siblings were probably dead.

 _Some lies are love,_ Littlefinger had once told her to make lying more sweet. She should have been eagerly trying to forget everything that Petyr taught her, but she could not escape his voice. She heard him throughout her day, even in her dreams. He was a liar, but with every passing day she came to realize that she was very much a liar too.

 _Some lies are love_ was the lie she told herself the most. It was the lie she needed to justify lying to Jon. She meant well with her lies, and sometimes lies were the only weapon she had to wield.

She'd lied to him about her meeting with Littlefinger, and to cover that lie she lied again about the information she received about her uncle The Blackfish. But at least she was being given the opportunity to tell him the truth now, about Melisandre and her wicked plans. She could help put his mind at ease, and show him that she could be trusted. Then maybe she wouldn't feel so weighed down by her other deceptions.

When the cage came to a stop, the cage shook, which made her heart flutter. But she steadied herself and slowly rose to her feet, determined to find Jon and relieve him of his worries, relieve him of his guilt. She opened the door and holding her dress, took several measured steps out of the cage and onto the ice. Ghost followed behind quickly, keeping at her heels as she moved ahead.

Emrick was right. The top was dark, poorly lit, and bitterly cold. Though she had walked these corridors before, they looked almost unrecognizable in the darkness of night, each wall of ice that surrounded her looking identical to the next. She might have gotten lost searching for Jon up there. But before she even had to call his name she saw him turning a corner, heading right towards her.

"Sansa?" he gasped, his eyes scanning her before looking down to see Ghost. "Wh...what are you doing?"

She could see that he was upset. Strangely, she kind of liked whenever he was upset with her. She didn't like disappointing him, but she did like how concerned he looked, how protective of her he could become. After she came back from Mole's Town, he had given her a strong hug and told her not to scare him. She wanted him to hug her again and tell her not to scare him. But he looked more irritated with her than afraid.

"I thought I would join you...on your _nights watch_ ," she joked, hoping to settle him with a laugh first. If Jon's dead silence wasn't enough to convince her that she was not a jester, the look on his face told her that she should never attempt a joke again. "I guess that wasn't very funny. I've never been good at making people laugh." Not like Arya, she wanted to say, though she didn't dare.

"Are you okay?" he asked as moved in front of her, looking her over. His concern yet again was making her feel loved.

"I'm fine. I...you stormed off after....the vial dropped. I was just worried...about you."

Jon's eyes moved across Sansa's face before he dropped them towards his direwolf. He looked so confused. "How did you get up here?"

"Emrick," Sansa said. "He offered to bring you a message but then he thought better of it because of what happened with... your steward -Olly."

"And is this his cloak you're wearing?" he asked, not hiding his displeasure with her being there.

"Yes. I didn't think to put anything else on when I came after you. You just left me there and didn't come back."

"I told you I was going for a walk." Jon turned away from her and looked off in another direction.

"Looks like you went for more than a walk."

"I'm sorry for leaving," he barked out an apology.  "But we don't have enough sentries up here for the night shift so I decided to help out -I sent an overworked and tired watcher to bed for the night."

"That was nice of you," she said more snidely than she intended, but she didn't like speaking to him with his back turned on her. "Your duty isn't to the Night's Watch anymore." She decided not to remind him of who he did have a duty to, as to not push him too hard, too fast. "Look I know I probably shouldn't have come up here but...we have to talk about this."

But his body language spoke as loud as his silence did. She took a step towards him. "Jon please talk to me." Nothing. "Seriously, you're hurting my feelings right now. Don't shut me out."

"I shouldn't have touched you where I touched you," he finally spoke, his back still turned. "No one should touch you...there."

She grabbed her brother and forced him to turn around to see her. "Shut up about that. You healed me...there."

"It doesn't matter," he snapped.

"But it _matters to me,_ " she snapped back.

"You could have done it yourself," he said, glaring into her. "With your own hands...your own fingers."

The look of contempt in his eyes made her feel angry as a tear gathered in the corner of her eye. She was on the defensive, feeling the need to convince him that their massages had not been mistakes. But how could she square that with the knowledge she had about the ointment? How could she both defend their massages as good, while also telling him that they were provoked by evil?

"I wanted...I _needed_ you to," she confessed to her brother, and admitted to herself. It was more than just the ointment she needed to heal her scars, for her scars were not just physical. "Ramsay did more than scar my body. Do you know what it's like to never want a man to see your body again, let alone touch it?"

"I'm not the man to heal the insecurities you have with your body," he shook his head, avoiding her eye contact.

"Are you that selfish?" she barked at him. "Can you not see how much it meant for me to _give a man permission_ to touch me there?"

"Sansa you don't understand," Jon stressed.

"What don't I understand?"

"You're a girl," he sighed. "You-"

"Oh and girls are too stupid to understand anything?" she interrupted. "You're just a wise man and I'm a naive stupid little girl? Is that it?"

"No it's not that. You just can't understand how guilty this made me feel," he said as he grabbed her by the side of her face. "I'm your brother - you're big brother. I have a sacred duty to you. A responsibility. And that responsibility doesn't involve sticking my finger in any part of your body. Whether I had your consent or not."

"My consent doesn't come easy Jon. Not without struggle of my own. I understand that it might make you uncomfortable big brother, but how about you think about this. I'm your little sister, and I have my own role to live up to, my own guilt when I don't live up to the standards I set too high. I want you - my big brother to see me as pure, innocent, sweet. I don't want my big brother to look upon me like a whore."

"I've never looked at you like you're a whore -"

"But surely you can understand that I could _feel like one_ because I've been fucked in my ass like one!" she barked as he looked away from her. "See how you recoil from the truth of my purity? You don't think that is embarrassing to me? Look Jon, I'm not an idiot. I know that sisters shouldn't give their brothers permission to penetrate them. I know it's strange, and conflicting, and gives us guilt. But I thought you would have appreciated that I trusted you - trusted that you would be gentle, that you wouldn't hurt me, that you wouldn't think any less of me because I let you."

"It's not you who I think any less of," Jon said with closed eyes and a sigh.

"I don't think any less of you Jon," she told him, as her heart swelled with emotion. "I think more of you for being willing to even though it was a bit strange. Please don't regret it. I need you to not regret it."

But Jon kept his eyes closed, as if he either regretted his actions, or regretted the emotions that had been born from the night in question.  She grabbed her brother by the hands and waited until he opened his eyes. She wanted the truth. And she knew how hard it was for people to lie when making eye contact. "Jon, what are you thinking, right now?"

"You don't want to know - it's not very appropriate," he said.

"Tell me," she said, squeezing his hands, squeezing her legs even tighter, embracing the heat between her thighs, while also being chilled by what it meant. "Whatever it is, I want to know." The way Jon eyed her made her feel as if he was going to make a confession that big brothers weren't supposed to make to their little sisters.

_We don't always enjoy our lust or excitement..._

The sudden realization of what she _wanted him to say_ made her lose breath. _Sometimes what we fear is what also lights our fires..._

His hesitation to speak, as if the words themselves were perverted, only made the silence more tense, the heat within her even hotter. _Sometimes you wonder how it's possible to want something so bad, that's so wrong, that makes you feel so good._

The Red Woman saw this in her flames - her and Jon. But Sansa had fled before she subjected herself to any more of the prophecy. She didn't want to hear it from that witch's mouth. But hearing it from him? That did something to her that she could no longer deny.

"Please tell me what you're feeling, what you're thinking," she begged. "Even if it's inappropriate."

"I'm thinking about the morning I climbed The Wall," Jon finally said.

That was neither what she expected or wanted to hear. Was he telling her the truth? Why was he thinking about that? "You mean when you climbed with the wildlings?"

"Aye- a dozen of them or so. Orell, Jarl, Varamyr, Ygritte." Hearing _her_ name made it more clear to Sansa why Jon had so randomly thought about that moment, but it made her feel no less disappointed. "Tormund led the scouting party so they could plan the attack of Castle Black from the south. I was brought along to prove myself. Prove to them that I was truly one of them, that I could help plan an attack that would kill my former black brothers."

"That's not what I thought you were going to say," she thought out loud, chagrined, which was pronounced enough in her voice for him to notice.

"Well what did you think I was going to say?" he asked, studying her.

"Nothing important," she said, managing a smile while letting go of his hands. She turned away and shuffled toward the edge of the wall so she could hide her disappointment. _What's wrong with me?_ she thought as Jon joined her near the edge. "So what happened? she asked so silence wouldn't overtake them. She figured he might as well finish his story, even if it had nothing to do with any conflicted feelings. "Was this when you finally proved to Ygritte that you weren't a crow?"

"She already knew I was still a crow. She said as much that morning before we made our climb. She told me, _'I'm your woman, Jon Snow. And you're going to be loyal to your woman."_ Jon smiled, as he reflected on this exchange. _"It's you and me that matters to me and you.'_ "

"Wow. She's a poet," Sansa said, again sounding more spiteful than she wanted. She wanted him to stop talking about her, and stop making her feel stupidly jealous. But she knew it would have been strange to cut him off from the feelings she begged him to reveal. She wondered if this was before or after he must have made love to her in the cave. "Tell me more."

"She made me swear not to betray her." It took everything that was still good inside of Sansa for her to not mention that he had. Instead, she bit her lip and continued peaking over the edge.

"To climb something this high, this treacherous, you have to trust your climbing partners with your life," he went on. "But I knew I would eventually betray her and the weight of my lie held us down as we climbed."

"What was the climb like?" she asked.

"Sansa, I can't begin to express how bizarre it all is. You start at the bottom, looking up like there _no way is this possible._ But you plant your axe into the ice and ascend anyway -  one step at a time. Then at some point you find the courage, or the stupidity to finally look down...and all of the trees that once loomed high above your head look like little shrubs. Then you look back up and you're not even halfway up this wall of ice. And that's when you notice the cold, biting and heavy, threatening to freeze you into the wall itself, and you feel the winds, wild and unrelenting, blowing in every direction, pieces ice and snow so sharp, it cuts at your face like knives, the air so cold that your cuts immediately freeze."

Sansa held her arms together even tighter and trembled. She could feel the snow in her boots, and noticed her toes going numb, and then there was the wind blowing up her dress, biting at her soft parts - quite literally freezing her ass off. And listening to Jon talk about his frigid climb up the Wall wasn't helping.

"With all of the ice and debris, it hurt like hell to keep my eyes open, focused. And the wind made tears freeze in my eyeball, and that hurt even more. But you couldn't close your eyes because you needed to see where to plunge your axe. Not every bit of the Wall is as as sturdy as the other sections. My party found that out - a piece of the ice cracked, there was an avalanche, half of those brave men fell to their deaths."

"Do you feel guilty about that?" Sansa asked.

"About what?"

"That you lived and they died."

"I killed a legendary brother to infiltrate the Wildling camp, I betrayed numerous vows, I lied repeatedly to the woman I loved - there wasn't a single moment beyond the wall where I didn't feel overwhelming guilt."  Jon must have noticed his sister trembling because he removed the gloves from his hands and handed them to her. When Sansa had both of them on, he blew warm breath to his own hands.

"Even in the face of death, Ygritte kept climbing. No second guessing, no regret. She kept climbing. She was the reason I made it to the top. She inspired me to stay alive," he pulled Sansa away from the edge of The Wall."I didn't even feel the cold when I reached the top. My entire body was on fire, my muscles felt torn, my limbs felt numb. Me and Ygritte just collapsed in the snow and looked up at the sky. And it was as if the gods parted the clouds and sent a special ray of sun to us."

Sansa caught Jon staring at her, and it was only then did she truly realize why Jon was telling her this story. _He DOES have feelings for me, and he's afraid of them_ she reasoned as they eyed each other.  "We stood right here and celebrated our victory with a kiss," he mused over his dead lover, while gazing at his sister. _He's retreating to his memories of her._   "Mm. It was the closest I ever got to turning - truly turning. Betraying The Night's Watch, betraying The North, The Seven Kingdoms, my father, my family."

"Must have been some kiss," Sansa remarked. Jon was close enough to kiss her...if only he wanted to. She caught herself with her mouth slightly open, as they blew their warm breaths into each others faces.

 _Kiss me..._ she communicated with her eyes. 

But he broke eye contact and hurried past her. "Come into the warming shed," he said, quickly moving away from her.

She swallowed her pride, her guilty thoughts, and followed Jon and Ghost into a hallway that led to a small shed. Jon fed scraps to Ghost and offered Sansa food and warm drink, though Sansa found her solace in the fire that warmed her face, and hands, and legs. After a few silent minutes of warming themselves by the fire, Jon cleared his throat while looking at Ghost eating a bone, avoiding eye contact with his sister. "So did the ointment truly heal you?"

Yes, y _ou healed my asshole, Jon.  
_

But she didn't dare answer him that way. Instead, she nodded and smiled politely. "I'm thankful for what you did for me."

He lifted his eyes from the fire to look at her. "Now you just need ointment for your breast, to finally erase what Ramsay did to you."

"What he did to me can never be erased," she said as a fact, though she wasn't sure if it came off as cynical.

"I still feel bad for spilling the vial. If you want, I'll go to Melisandre and ask for more."

"I already went to see her," Sansa disclosed before she knew if she was even ready to tell him. "She made me a new vial of the ointment."

"You went to see her by yourself?" Jon asked, leaning forward.

"With Ghost," she shrugged.

"So what happened?"

"We just talked," Sansa said, still undecided on how she should reveal to Jon the truth of Melisandre's ointment. "She told me about her life growing up. And how she was sold to the Red Temple."

"Did she tell you how she made that ointment?"

Sansa swallowed a lump in her throat. "She told me she made it from different natural ingredients found all over the world - leaves from the jungles of Yi Ti. Flowers from The Bone Mountains. Honey from The Sweet Lotus Vale."

"I bet." Jon chuckled. "This is how she healed your scars, and my burned hand? With leaves and honey. And you believe her?"

"I do," Sansa told him truthfully.

Jon took a bite of his stale bread before swallowing. "So nothing really special about the ointment? No spells, or magic? Nothing we should be concerned about?"

In that moment, Sansa chose to tell the truth. Not to Jon, no, but to herself. She would have normally told herself that lies were love, she would have normally tried to sweeten the bitter truth to make it easier to swallow.

But it was time to stop lying to herself.

The Hound had lit her fire that night.

And her fire was now raging for her brother.

But most bitter of all, she felt more comfortable following Littlefingers lead of deceit and manipulation than her own fathers teachings of honor and goodness. These were her truths and she swallowed each of them, bitter as they were, all while her brother looked over at her, one side of his face painted in fire, the other half shaded by shadows.

"Well?" he asked, chewing his bread and cheese.

But she was ignoring his question. She gazed upon him, embracing her emotions for the first time. Her dirty, dark, ugly thoughts.

 _I like your dark eyes_ she noted. _I like how mysterious and somber and beautiful they are. You're a beautiful man._

_Even with the scars on your face, you're beautiful._

_I want to run my fingers through your beard and smell your hair and kiss your chin._

...And _I want you to tell me to take off my dress, and lay on the bed, and I want you to touch me all over._

It felt strange confessing these dirty thoughts to her own conscious, but it was also a relief. It was exhausting denying your own feelings, rejecting your thoughts, making excuses for them, searching for others to blame. Lying to others was easy enough, it was the lies about herself, to herself that had taken such a toll. But she was done lying to herself.

"Sansa," he called.

"Huh?" she blinked and stopped ogling her attractive brother, her heart fluttering from admitting that _he was_ attractive. "Oh I'm sorry, Jon. I was thinking."

"About?" he asked.

 _About how your hands felt roaming between my naked legs._ "Nothing important. I'm just a little tired, close to drifting. What were you asking again?"

"I asked if there was anything about Melisandre's ointment that we should worry about?" he asked, looking so honest, and concerned, and protective.

"No, there's nothing to worry about," Sansa lied to her brother, shaking her head, the lie flowing forth without the mental struggle of past lies.

When did her lying begin? Was it that first lie she told to the king and queen that doomed her to a life of lies? She lost Lady because of that lie.  Would this lie cause her to lose something greater?

When they were warm again, Jon walked her and Ghost to the lift. "Don't come up here again wearing so little," he told her as opened the cage door.

"Yes my lord."

"Seriously," he said with true concern to his voice, the kind that always made her melt. "People get frostbite in this kind of cold. Fever. I can fight all of your enemies for you but I can't fight the cold. You have to protect yourself from that."

"I hear you Jon. I won't do that again."

He looked at her as if he wanted to say more but instead of speaking he leaned in and gave her a hug. "I don't regret healing you," he whispered into her ear, as if he wanted no one else, even the gods to hear this. "I just needed time to think." He ended the hug with a kiss to her hair before stepping back with a smile. "I'll see you in the morning little sister."

She took the winch down the wall without being afraid. She walked those same dark courtyards back to her room without any fear of wights or ice demons or rapists hiding behind the corner.

All of her emotions were wrapped around her thoughts about Jon, and how she was going to force him to confront his own feelings.

She knew he felt something, it was why he had been so conflicted about where he touched her. But she needed to know if there was more to the way he looked at her, more to the way he hugged her, more to the tenderness of his kiss.

But if there was more to his feelings for her, she needed them to be revealed honest and true, not rooted in any wicked spells or ointment or magic.

_He won't resist your flame like he did mine._

_You will use the blue vial again._

Sansa was going to make a liar out of Melisdanre and her flames, one way or the other. She wasn't going to use the ointment anymore, even if it meant her nipple would remain ruined, even if it meant her ladybits would never be healed. But she was going to find out if Jon would resist her.

When she walked into Jon's bedchamber, she realized how difficult it was going to be to escape from the magic of the ointment. The empty blue vial was still sitting there on the floor, and it's contents had soaked into the wood, giving the entire room an overwhelming fragrance that connected Sansa to her strongest memory of passion and lust.

But she no longer smelled blood, and wine, and smoke.

All she smelled was Jon Snow.


	8. Jon IV

**Jon IV**

 

Patrolling the wall kept Jon from focusing on his feelings. He observed cracks in the ice. Some of them from the most recent battle, some that seemed ancient. He noted sections of ice that were constantly melting, freezing, and melting again.

He examined the integrity of the wood that supported their warming sheds, steps, and platforms. No surprise, he found that most needed repair, or a full replacement. He counted the broken things he saw as he went along, stopping once he was well into the hundreds.

They were in dire need of builders.

Pondering the weakening condition of everything should have been too bleak of a task to take on. But Jon was content to keep his mind occupied with possible solutions to their problems. The darkness beyond The Wall did not frighten him as much as his feelings did.

_This railing needs fixing._

Grabbing a board, hammer, nails, and saw, Jon set his mind and body on the exercise. He measured, sawed, cut. But his mind would not let him forget.

The feel of her skin. The sound of her voice. The smell of her body.

_So soft, and warm, and beautiful._

He hammered away at a nail. His concentration undercut by unwanted intoxication, his composure broken. And with a clumsy swing of his hammer the iron crashed into his thumb. He spat out curses and groans of agony, hurling the hammer away from him.

The hot pain only intensified an anger that already burned.

He forced his thumb between his teeth to squeeze out the throbbing. Closing his eyes, he sat in silence, more distracted by the fragrance of his fingers than the sting of a shattered thumb. His hands had caressed a slick ointment across her naked body, his fingertips had kneaded her skin. One particular finger, resting at his nose, had been inside her.

And it was that finger that stirred him. It was that finger that burned the most. It was that finger that felt cursed.

But he inhaled his finger's odor and relished the flavor of her scent- moist, and perfumed, and musky. Jon had once heard Tormund joke that a woman's rosebud didn't smell like roses. But hers smelled better. A womanly scent, an earthy bouquet of flowers directly pulled from the soil, bathed in the sweetness of peaches.

He felt a knot in his stomach. He fought the sudden urge of a disturbing thirst. And that only made him angrier. Smelling his finger was bad enough. But now he had the damning craving to go beyond knowing her scent. He yearned to know how his sister tasted.

_What's wrong with me?_

He lingered on the thought, chastising himself, unable to escape the dark secrets of his perverted mind, even as the sky began to brighten.

It was Bearded Ben's voice that broke him out of his daze.

Ben was an archer, a ranger that they all respected him. And he had come to relieve Jon of his watch. "Hobb made cream of wheat and fried bread again," the man spoke, his greying great beard blowing in the wind.

Jon fought the response to gag. He wasn't hungry. The pit of disgust in his belly prevented him from wanting to eat. Just thinking of the thick butter and honey that Hobb put into his chunky porridge only turned his stomach even more.

Ben helped pull Jon to his feet and looked him square in the eyes. "Are you and your sister leaving soon?"

"Depends on what you mean by soon," he said.  Jon was weary about telling his former brothers too much. Being murdered had permanently crushed his ability to trust them. "Why?"

"The unrest around here is growing," Ben replied. "People are afraid. Restless. Angry. I overheard a few talking this morning. They want to know if you can leave freely, why can't they? And then there is Lord Commander Tollett."

"What about him?" Jon narrowed his eyes.

"We didn't vote for him to be our commander."

"He's just acting," Jon spoke. "After I'm gone, you can have your own choosing to figure out who is best to lead you."

Ben grunted out a chuckle. "The misfits that remain don't trust in a choosing anymore. They voted for you, as young and inexperienced as you were, and look where that got them."

"Yes, they would be better off with Ser Alliser."

"No. Alliser had a bone to pick. We all recognize that now," Ben said earnestly, ignoring Jon's bite. He coughed and cleared his throat. "It's just too bad they didn't choose Denys Mallister like I did. He was the only one of you that wasn't going to let his ego lead him."

Jon could not discern the direction Ben wanted to go with this talk. But he felt threatened none the less. "I may have been young and inexperienced, but I was led by my vows, not my ego. I would not have named Thorne first ranger if I catered to my pride. I didn't ask to be Lord Commander, Ben. But I did the best I could."

"The best you could do got you murdered."

"Aye - and I guess you feel that was just reward for my youth and inexperience?" Jon asked.

"Don't insult me to my face ," Ben said, his jaw so tight he could barely get his words out. "I was outraged when I learned of what Thorne and his band did to you. I called him a traitor, a murderer. I felt personally betrayed by Yarwyck, whom I considered a close friend and good man. But Thorne convinced them that you were ruining our chance of survival. Siding with Wildlings. Giving them our shelter, our food, our horses and ships."

"Our chance of survival is tied to theirs. I only gave them what they needed to become an ally to us."

"I know your reasons Jon Snow," he said, his voice haggard and coarse. He wiped his runny nose with his forearm. "Some are still in awe. Trembling in fear at you and that red woman. But the others..." he paused before exhaling a cloud of cold. "You didn't kill them all. The distrust is still there. The fear is that you, your witch, your knight, smuggler, and sister will head off to Eastwatch, take our ships, coin, and provisions, and never be heard from again."

"Tell me Ben. Do you share that distrust, and those fears?"

"I do not," he answered without hesitation.

It wasn't what Jon had expected to hear. But then again, Jon had no idea what Ben even hoped to accomplish with this conversation.

"So what are you telling me for?" Jon asked, wanting to clear up the confusion. "To make me even more distrustful of the men in this castle? To push me out faster?"

"I don't want you to leave Jon," Ben said. "You have proven yourself a tenacious fighter and a decent enough leader. You're valuable. And who knows what wonders Melisandre could use to help us fight the damned dead. I don't want you to leave. But if you are set on leaving us, truly, It would be better for you to leave sooner rather than later. For everyone's sake."

Jon allowed those words to stay with him as he got into the cage and was lowered to the bottom of the wall. As he walked through the courtyard, he saw brothers grumpily moving about, tired and hungry, glancing his way. And the way they looked filled him with dread.

He wondered which of them still held ill intentions, which of them still resented him. Which of them would capture him and Sansa for The Boltons, in exchange for being released of their vows.

Suddenly, too suddenly, Jon's body tightened. He felt himself being squeezed, seized, as if a demon had jumped onto his chest to hug him. And as suddenly as Jon realized that he couldn't breathe, he also felt his legs growing heavier with each step. He heard footsteps behind him but when he turned, there was no one there.

He touched the hilt of his sword but it was too heavy to lift. Even still there was no enemy to fight, just his former brothers around him. Brothers of the Night's Watch.

Somehow he managed to duck behind a stack of logs, hiding from them. He felt alone. He felt helpless. He felt himself being murdered again.

But no one was there to kill him. And soon the overwhelming emotions stopped overwhelming him. He could breathe again. He could walk again. But the damage was done. The distrust was final. He had to leave this castle. He was murdered here. And though his murderers were dead, their actions lived on in his mind and body. And being around this courtyard brought him back to that place, that moment, and it suffocated him.

He went to his bedchamber to find his sister but the room was empty. He did see a bucket of soapy water on the floor, and from there noticed that the wooden floor had been scrubbed clean of the spilled ointment. All evidence of the rub gone, except for what remained on his hands and fingers.

Jon checked at Brienne's bedchamber but it too was empty. He figured they must have made their way to the common hall for breakfast. On his way there he ran into Davos and Edd, who told him they had just broken their own fast.

"I heard it was cream of wheat day," Jon said with a smile, trying his best to move past his moment of weakness as former brothers passed him.

"With fried bread, a very hearty breakfast," Davos smirked. "Coming to have you a bowl?"

"I'm not hungry," Jon admitted. "Just looking for my sister."

"She's eating with Lady Brienne and Podrick," Davos confirmed.

Before Jon could speak, he noticed Davos and Edd looking hard at something behind him. He turned and saw Melisandre looking out from the balcony of her building, her face looking more worried than usual.

He remembered that Sansa had visited her last night, and gotten the red woman to make her a new vial of ointment. He wondered if Sansa had told her what happened between them, but quickly got rid of the idea. She had trust issues just like Jon did. She knew better than to trust her with their secrets.

"Are you okay?" Davos asked, seemingly noticing that Jon wasn't as pulled together as he wanted to appear. "Anything pressing?"

"We need to leave by tomorrow," Jon answered once he was sure they couldn't be overheard. "I don't feel safe after sending the free folk back to their settlement. I can still feel the animosity towards me."

The Onion Knight nodded. "Well then we need to figure out our plan of leave now."

"I'll let your sister know we're going to meet," Edd said before departing towards the common hall, while Melisandre made her way toward them.

By the time Jon and Davos gathered Melisandre and Tormund to the meeting chamber, Edd was already there looking over the map. The new acting Lord Commander told Jon that Sansa and Brienne would be joining them soon, first needing to discuss a matter before they made it to the meeting. Jon couldn't help letting his mind run wild as he wondered what his sister had to tell her knight.

But there was no time to dwell on such matters, if they were going to leave on the morrow, they needed to decide where they were going, and how they were going to get there. They had already decided that they needed to meet in person with the houses they needed support from. But after sending ravens everywhere from White Harbor to Skagos and receiving no reply, the dire circumstances they were in felt even more daunting.

Davos mentioned that Stannis had struggled with the same thing, and Edd echoed the sentiment.

"We count it a blessing whenever we get anything more than a complaint from a lord," Edd complained before bringing up a strange letter he had received a few days ago from Elissa Forrester. A letter complaining of wildlings on her lands. In itself, the letter wasn't strange. But Lady Forrester had been dead for two years.

"Maybe it's her ghost," Edd shrugged after bringing up the eerie letter. "Maybe from the crypts she is disturbed by the wildlings."

The look Tormund gave to Edd brought out a timid smile before the Lord Commander sat down quietly in his chair.

But after everything they had seen, maybe Edd's joke wasn't too far off. Unfortunately, that would mean the ghosts of every other northerner, from his father, to Bran the Builder would soon be haunting them.

"Any letter we receive might be a forgery," Jon announced. "This is why we mustn't rely on letters, no matter the seal or stamp. We must treat with these lords face to face."

"Well what about this letter?" Edd said, unrolling a paper from his pocket and placing it on the table. "I forgot to mention that Arron brought me this yesterday. It's from King's Landing. It seems authentic."

Jon and Davos leaned in closer to get a read. Davos spoke the words silently to himself, a habit Jon noticed anytime Davos read something. When he was done he looked around at the rest of them. "It says the queen was imprisoned by the high septon along with her brother Loras Tyrell."

This revelation sparked Melisandre's interest as she moved closer to confirm his words. After several moments of silence she spoke. "The Faith Militant has taken over King's Landing."

"The Faith Militant?" Jon raised an eyebrow.

She explained that The Faith of The Seven once had a powerful military force that served at the behest of the high septon, not the king. The order had been gone for hundreds of years, but the red woman said she recognized men carving a seven pointed star in their heads as a tradition from the Faith Militant.

Jon wasn't so sure she was correct about a religious military taking over the capital. He wasn't sure about anything Melisandre said about religion.

"I suspect the Lannisters are behind the queens arrest," Jon offered up as an explanation, remembering things Sansa had told him. 

Jon thought about when the Lannisters came to Winterfell, all of them with golden hair. Joffrey had been the crown jewel, but he was dead now, and the other boy had taken his throne. Tommen was his name Jon remembered. He was a soft boy. Bran had sparred with him and won easily. But beyond that, Jon remembered Sansa mentioning that Tommen was meek and easily manipulated, the opposite of his brother Joffrey.

Because of this Jon determined that whoever controlling the King, would control the Kingdom. It only makes sense that it would be the queen mother. "Cersei wants to wrestle away control from the Tyrells."

"That may be true, but we must also take Melisandre's claim seriously," Davos said. "Perhaps even use the news to our advantage. If the capital truly is occupied and the Tyrells and Lannisters have lost power, the northern houses might be more inclined to again declare their independence. Especially when the Stark children show up at their door."

"But first we have to get to their doors," Jon stressed as he looked over the map, specifically the mountains and bay separating them from the only house he was certain would support them. "I believe we should hit Bear Island. Their little lord sent a letter to Stannis saying they only recognized the Starks as their king .They are renown fighters and had their own die in The Red Wedding. They should be our first stop."

"Aye," Davos agreed. "Even if they can only provide a few hundred men, gaining their support would make it easier to convince the Glovers at Deepwood Motte to join."

They agreed with the basic plan, to start in the northwest and sweep their way down. But the major problem remained; getting there.

Brienne opened the door to the chamber before they went any further into their discussions, though Sansa did not follow her. Brienne seemed to read Jon's mind when she made eye contact with him. "Lady Sansa will not be joining us. I was properly briefed before this meeting to represent her interests. Since she was told we will be leaving tomorrow morning, she needs to spend the rest of the day finishing up her dress."

Tormund made a noise that sounded half a grunt, and half a laugh. "Southern women."

"Excuse me?" Brienne asked the wildling.

"Here we're makin' plans to free her brother and she'd rather make a pretty dress," he scoffed.

"Would you have her freeze on her journey?" Brienne jeered at him. "She must finish her garments to withstand the coming winter.  Laugh all you want, but that 'southern' woman with her 'pretty dress' is the only one alive that can rally the north. And by that token, the only one that can save your people from being destroyed by the Boltons."

Tormund met her energy with his. "Fucking hilarious"

"That amuses you?" she spat.

"Very much Brienne of Tarth. Since that 'southern' woman with her 'pretty dress' needs our folk to even take her own castle back."

The Lady Knight opened her mouth and raised a finger but Jon broke in "Enough!" before this silly argument could continue. "We don't have time for this."

Brienne nodded an apology while Tormund's glare turned into a grin. Jon ignored his obvious expression of flirting and briefed Brienne on their dilemmas.

She seemed confused when Jon mentioned that they would first travel out to The Gift to speak with the free folk leaders so they could secure the 2,000 men.

"Why do you need to _gain_ their support?" she asked Jon before throwing her eyes at Tormund. "Are your people not already willing to fight for what Jon has given them?"

"My people are not _my people._ I'm not their lord. I'm not their king. That woman murdered our king," Tormund pointed to Melisandre. Jon had nearly forgotten that it was Mel that lit the fire, and proclaimed the Maynce was a King of Lies. The free folk clearly had not. "We have clans. And each clan rules themselves. You can't look at all of us as the same."

"But all of you are in the same predicament," Brienne argued. "If you don't fight, the Boltons will destroy you."

"We understand the need to defend our lands," Tormund said, counting himself among his people. "But you're asking for us to fight a southern battle. For Winterfell. None of us agreed before hand to help anyone fight for a fuckin' castle. Nevermind a castle that we won't live in."

"So you don't see that this battle is for more than a castle? That this battle is for the safety of the entire north, including your people?"

"I understand Brienne of Tarth, but this is what you need to understand," Tormund spoke, his voice humorless and impassioned. "We've lost more women, and children, and men than _all of you_." For a moment it seemed as if Tormund might suddenly start weeping. But the thunder of his voice remained. "What happened at Hardhome was a massacre! The worst day in our history, at least since you southerners put that fuckin' wall up. Hundreds of thousands, dead. Slaughtered. Turned into dead things. Dead dogs attacking children. Dead children attacking their mothers. Dead mothers attacking their sisters. Dead sisters attacking their brothers."

The chill that swept across the room made everyone pause for a few speechless moments before Tormund continued to speak."Those of us that remain, are angry. Bitter. Grateful to be alive, but no less weary. This is our home. Our land. And the clans out there won't be eager to leave when we are all that is left." He pointed directly at Jon while continuing to stare at Brienne. "That man needs to visit them, their wives, their children. And convince them to leave."

And with that, the matter was resolved, though others took it's place. The main one being the issue of catching a ship to Bear Island with little to nothing as payment. Jon had suggested going to Deepwood Motte, but Davos had warned against trying to find a ship there, as the Boltons that helped Lord Glover retake his castle were likely still in the area and were probably on high alert now that Sansa had escaped.

Davos came up with a solution as he talked about his career as a smuggler, and the many trading partners he gained over the years. "My first mate used to trade with the free folk and at Eastwatch. Often times, he sold goods from one to the other. But his most profitable partners were at White Harbor and the Stony Shores. Though it's been many years, I reckon that I should still have many friends in those fishing villages that will remember the goods I brought to them when no one else would."

Edd looked closer at the map, no doubt noticing that they were a long ways from the Stony Shore. "I'm not seeing how you could get there without being captured. This entire area has a heavy Bolton presence."

"You're right that it's unlikely that we could make it to the Stony Shores undetected," Davos said. "But I'm not suggesting that we head there. The Ironborn attacked those villages at the initial stages of the war. But many of the villagers that survived the assault fled north. While I was with Stannis recruiting Mountain Clans to his army, I personally met with the Wulls. They mentioned fishing villages popping up on the coast near the mountains," Davos said before dropping his finger on the map, tracing until he was north of the Wolfswood. He circled the several hundred miles of coast outside of the mountains with his fingertip. "Somewhere in here."

"Yes I remember this," Melisandre said, corroborating The Onion Knight's claim. "Stannis didn't feel it was worth it to make a trip to the coast just to see if a few villagers would be willing to join his army. But he did accept that they were there."

"I'm sure we would be able to maneuver around the mountains," Davos said with an optimistic smile. "Maybe even get the help of our friends in the mountains. The Wulls respected the Starks. They told me that The North Remembers."

"I don't trust this plan," Brienne said as she studied the map before looking up at Davos. "There are many clans in the mountains. And not all of them respect the Starks. Not all of them are friends. Lady Sansa even mentioned that when she was wed to Ramsay, there were mountain clan members that had already migrated to winter town. Women and children. She said the leaders of these clans support the Boltons. Those leaders are still in the mountains. I don't remember their names but the lady does. They may have orders to capture and return the Bolton boy's wife."

"So what do you suggest we do then?" Jon asked.

"I don't know the north very well. I just know that traveling by horse with the Boltons looking for her is dangerous. And so is traveling through the mountains to get to the coast on the off chance that friendly fisherman might remember trading with you dozens of years ago," she said in a scathing tone as she looked at Davos. She returned her eyes to Jon, and her voice softened. "Lady Sansa believes it would be most prudent to sail from Eastwatch to White Harbor, and treat with one of the larger houses."

"No," Jon rejected immediately, causing Brienne eyes to widen with surprise. "We're not using any ships from Eastwatch."

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because they aren't my ships to use," Jon answered.

"You can use the ships Jon," Edd said, clearly confused as to why Jon would feel that they couldn't. But Edd had not heard what Jon had heard from Bearded Ben. Edd didn't know that his own life would likely be in danger if he showed too much support to Jon after he left.

"I said no," Jon stated again, this time looking hard at them to let them know this was not to be negotiated."These ships belong to The Night's Watch. I've left the Night's Watch. I won't take your ships with me."

He wasn't even sure that he wouldn't be murdered if he showed up to Eastwatch asking for a ship. He was not going to risk it. They were going to go on their campaign without using Night's Watch resources.

Davos broke the silent tension by acknowledging Brienne's concerns. "You're right my lady. My plan is not the soundest plan in the world, I admit. It's not even very ideal. But look at us. A pirate, wildling, red priestess, a lady knight, and a man raised from the dead. We're not the ideal team to fight for the north, but here we are. Fighting. And I believe we're going to win. But we're going to have to take some risks to do it."

"Did you believe you were going to win with Stannis?" Brienne asked, undercutting his hopefulness.

"We're going with Ser Davos' plan," Jon said, cutting the discussion before it could escalate. "I understand and share your fears. But out of principle, I cannot allow us to use what doesn't belong to us."

The unhealed wounds and bitterness between all in the room made discussing any of these issues awkward. And truly illustrated that they were not the ideal team to be fighting for unity.

"I apologize if I've come across as rude," Brienne said to both Jon and Davos. "I just have to look out for my lady and do what is in her best interest."

Jon could have taken her words as an affront. That she was more invested in keeping Sansa safe than her own brother. But Jon chose to see the passion behind the words. Brienne cared about keeping his sister safe, and would lay down her life to ensure that she was. He was grateful for that.

"You don't have to apologize. I appreciate your honesty and your duty to protect Lady Sansa." He took a deep breath and looked back at the map. "It's going to be tough, evading Bolton spies and northerners that support them. Navigating those mountains even though we've never done it before. But-"

"You've haven't, but I have," Tormund interrupted what was going to be some kind of rallying speech. He looked down at the map, seemingly for the first time and grunted. "This map of yours is all wrong. I know the mountains. And I have men back in the settlement that know the mountains even better than I." He chuckled then. "And if you're trying to evade your kind. Har. We do that better than anyone. Let us lead you to the coast."

"I don't think it would be safe," Jon thought out loud. "The north is already anxious. They would likely attack any wildlings they saw on sight. And with you leading us, that means they would be attacking us on sight."

"How long do you reckon it will take you slow pokes to go through the mountains and reach the coast? Give me yer best guess. And account for the southern woman and her pretty dress. "

"Two weeks," Davos estimated.

"Three if the weather gets bad again," Tormund grinned. "With my men, our knowledge of these mountains and rivers. We'll get you there in a week. Ten days at most."

"You're not getting a horse through hundreds of miles of mountain in a week," Brienne chimed in. "I've been around all of westeros by horse the past few years and, well it's just not possible."

"You southerners are just weak and lazy like your horses," Tormund threw back with a smirk. "You ride your purty' horses on paved roads and even grounds. Us free folk ride garron on steep hills and the stoniest of mountains, in the harshest climates. And they''ll ride day and night with only a small break to sleep and shit." He patted Jon on the shoulder. "Seriously, let me bring my best men who know the wilderness and secrets of these lands better than any of you. We can hunt and offer protection for two men and a lady."

"Two ladies," Melisandre said.

Jon shook his head. "I think it would be better if you stayed here at Castle Black. We can't parade around a foreigner as we try to rally the north, especially after what happened with Stannis and Robb."

"My place is by your side," she insisted, no conceit in his eyes or voice. "I can stay in at the fishing village as you sail to Bear Island. But I need to be with you on your campaign. _Please_."

It was strange seeing her so humbled. She was not the same woman that Jon had first met, when she came to the wall with Stannis, smelling of fire, with a conflicting air of sexual but pious confidence. All of that seemed gone, and what remained was a pretty but somber woman, with _please_ on the tip of her tongue.

Jon nodded and gave her permission to accompany them, though he wasn't sure why except for that he felt sorry for her. And felt like he owed her something. But he thought she might be a liability. He hoped he wasn't making a great mistake.

He turned to Tormund and thanked him for taking the risk. But the orange haired wildling rejected his thanks, instead leaning in for an embrace and speaking strongly into his ear. "Thank me by convincing the rest of these northerners to fight with us, not against us."

"I will," he promised his friend.

Tormund accepted the promise with a nod before he squinted and sniffed Jon. A sudden wide grin spread across his face. "What perfume are you wearing?" When Jon didn't reply the wildling cackled. "You smell more lady than lad. Like some of the women I had back home. You're prettier than them too."

Jon nudged him with a forearm as Davos and Edd shared a laugh. Jon wondered if Tormund could smell the scent of his sister, but his thoughts shifted whenever the letter carrier Arron barged into their meeting.

His eyes darted around the table, as if he was unsure whether to report to Edd or Jon. "We can't find Matthar. We think he deserted last night."

The courtyard was a hysterical mess of chatter as Jon and the rest of them marched out of the meeting. Matthar was one of the recruits Jon had trained with when he first arrived at Castle Black. A loyal ranger and capable fighter, he was one of the last men Jon would have suspected of leaving his post. But his belongings were gone, and no one had seen him since supper.

"All of the animals are accounted for," Bass, the kennelmaster announced to Jon. Suddenly Jon realized most of them were speaking at him.

"He couldn't have gotten far without a horse," Jon noted out loud, though his voice was being drowned out by dozens of angry voices. They were all focused in Jon, wanting him to give them orders, answers, direction. But Jon was no longer the man to provide them with that, and he deferred to Edd.

"We will send out a few men," Edd spoke with little authority, unsure of himself and this newfound position of leadership. "But only men that are trustworthy. The rest of us need to stay back and continue our duties."

Jon knew that without saying it, Edd was concerned about sending out men that would themselves desert. A roar of volunteers validated the concern, as dozens of men argued that they were trustworthy enough, experienced enough, loyal enough to leave castle black to track down their brother.

The banter soon turned an argument, as brother ripped into brother, pointing out his shortcomings. Tim Stone blamed all of the men that were on watch last night for letting Matthar slip out undetected. It was uncovered then that Jon had acted as a sentry, taking over Black Bernarr's patrol post for the night. This prompted more confusion, more distrustful eyes.

"So are you brother or not?" Fulk The Flea threw up his hands. His question resonated with the rest of them, as they all demanded an answer.

But the morning, already full of surprises, took another turn when one of the guards began shouting from a distant tower. "He's back! I see him. He's come back!"

"Open the gate," Bearded Ben yelled, though it was only after Edd gave a nod of approval did the gates open.

It took several minutes before Matthar stumbled through the open gates, his black rags so covered by ice and snow that he looked like a white brother.

"You cowardly oaf," Fulk The Flea screamed at his friend, his brother. "Why did you come back? Now _we have_ to kill you."

The commotion drowned out whatever words Matthar had to say, as everyone shouted whether they believe he should be spared for coming back, or if he had to be executed for his desertion.

It was clear to Jon that how this was handled was of monumental importance, so he called for an emergency meeting in the common hall. "Only for those that have taken the black," Jon clarified who the meeting was for, excluding Davos, Brienne, and Tormund. This needed to be settled between brothers.

Every member of the order piled into the hall, even the guards on duty. And it took several minutes before things quieted down enough for Matthar to explain himself. He spoke of being afraid, of the White Walkers and the dead they brought with them, but also of being angry that their own Lord Commander was abandoning them, leaving them to be slaughtered and turned into wights.

"Is it fair that I lose my head today while Jon Snow gets to flee without reproach?" Matthar asked of them.

With every eye pointed at Jon, he took a deep breath and fought off the memories of _"For the watch."_ He did not want to have a repeat of the panic he felt earlier. He could not show them weakness.

"It's true that I am leaving in the morning," he admitted to a chorus of anger. "But I am not a deserter. I fulfilled my vows. I live and died at my post. My watch began just like yours. And it ended the night I was murdered by those I called brother."

"Jeor Mormont would consider you a deserter," Fornio shouted from the bench. He was one of the only survivors from the Battle at the Fist. And his words were held in high regard by the rest of the crows. "You sent away your friend Samwell. Just let him leave with his wildling lover and babe. Next you put your other friend in charge of us. And now you are fleeing with your sister for the glory of your house. I do not find your interpretation of fulfilled vows credible. _You are a deserter!_ "

"Maybe we should all kill ourselves and get that red bitch to bring us back so we can all be free of our vows," Fulk shouted. This brought even more applause from the progressively aroused men in the hall.

"If Jon is allowed to run from a fight, why shouldn't we all be allowed?" a man from the back shouted.

"I'm not running from a fight. I'm going to fight the Boltons," Jon offered as a defense. "Ramsay Bolton is an illegitimate Warden. He holds my brother prisoner and terrorizes the north through fear and unprovoked violence. I will remove him from his position of power. Not for glory, but because the north needs to unite if we are to stand any chance against the White Walkers."

"So this is about the White Walkers, and not the fact that your sister came through those gates after fleeing from Ramsay Bolton?" Fornio asked. "You don't expect us to believe that Jon Snow. Many of us cannot read a book but we can read a man."

"Well I need you to read my lips as well," Jon shot at him. "If Ramsay Bolton is allowed to stay in charge. The north will be slaughtered by what is out beyond that wall. Our only chance of survival is a united north. And the Boltons will not allow the north to unite. Surely you know we do not stand a chance unless we seek out help."

"We've asked for help, and they ignored us," Fornio said.

"Well we're done asking then." He pounded his fist on the table, looking at the dozens of faces staring back at him. "I don't need your permission to leave. I don't. But I would like your support. Yes, truthfully, I want to save my brother. And liberate Winterfell. But those are goals that support the primary goal of uniting all of the north, alerting them to the truth. The fight is not with our neighbors, not anymore. It's with the dead."

The murmur in the hall revealed voices that supported Jon's goal of uniting the north, and others that didn't. But too many were speaking at once for Jon to distinguish which support was stronger.

"One at a time," Edd spoke from his seat. "Jon has made his decision. If anyone has anything to say about it, now is the time to get it off your chest. But don't all speak over each other."

Iron Emmett stood and the chatter ceased out of respect for him. He was the only man to ever best Jon with a sword during training. Iron sharpened iron, so if not for their tough sparring sessions Jon may not have survived any of the duels he faced in the last few years. But while Jon expected Emmett to speak from the position of a hardened warrior, he was surprised when the man's icy cold eyes looked on the verge of melting.

"You aren't the only one that has family Jon," Emmett spoke, his cold voice cracking like hot water on ice. "I took the black mere months after fighting broke out in the Riverlands. I've since received letters about my wife and children being captured by bandits. I've wanted to leave for vengeance. So I sympathize with you, for all that has happened to your family. But when we took our oaths, brother, we became family. A bickering, nasty, foul smelling family. But a family none the less." He wiped tears from his eyes. "I respect you Jon, but I can't agree with your decision to leave us. Not when we've all lost but remained here."

More men stepped forward after Emmett stepped down. They expressed their frustrations and vented what made them angry. They made their deepest fears known and poured out their hearts until they were near tears. Near 30 spoke, and 11 of them wept at some point. Jon counted, because he had never seen so many men cry so openly.

Bearded Ben didn't shed any tears himself, but his story brought tears to the eyes of those that listened. He talked about his life before he became a ranger. How he had fought for his lord in the rebellion. When the fighting was over he had been given land to hold and crops to grow. He felt like a hero, and that his valor had been valued.

He worked the land he was given with his companion from the war. A man younger than him, a man that had fought by his side and slept in his tent. His name was Edam. "Like me, the boy had never farmed a day in his life," Ben remembered out loud, a certain fondness to his voice.

"But when our crops failed, our lord still took his share, all but leaving us to starve. I asked for hunting rights and was granted them. Not in writing, but with a handshake. So me and Edam went hunting for deer and boar. And after we were found bathing at the river, we were captured and brought before our lord. The same lord that had granted me the hunting rights for my role in the war. But he took one look at me and Edam and called us poachers."

The fondness of his voice was gone, just bitterness.

"He specifically told the Night's Watch to separate us. I was sent to Shadow Tower. Edam to Eastwatch. But I was told he never made it. Something about an accident as he traveled with new recruits."

The sadness to his voice reflected on the faces of the men that wiped at their eyes. Jon realized then that they were all afraid. But it wasn't a fear of White Walkers. They feared not mattering in the end. Their voices unheard, their stories forgotten, everything they have loved and lost considered insignificant.

The Night's Watch had been something that gave them purpose. A set of values they could adhere themselves to, duties and vows that mattered, even if to no one else but themselves. But that institution was failing right before their eyes. The rules didn't matter anymore. Their very oaths not being worth the breath they spoke them with.

Jaremy Rykker stood to his feet. He was acting first ranger after Jon's uncle Benjen went missing. Though he was no longer a capable fighter after a series of nasty injuries from battle, Jon respected him greatly. One of the only Night's Watch members Jon still held in high regard.

"I took Jon Snow to the heart tree where he took his oath," he began speaking, his voice strained, his breathing heavy. He struggled breathing now after he took an arrow to the lungs from a wildling. Perhaps from Ygritte. "I heard him say the words. I hugged him when he was finished. And I saw him lying out there on the ground in a pool of his own blood. And I wept from what my order had become. That man lived and died for the Night's Watch." As he pointed he looked around at the men in the hall before turning to look at Jon.

"Jon you are a good man. Just like your father before you. And your cause is just. But the concerns of the men in here are as well. We need rules that we can trust, that we can follow. We need discipline, order. Otherwise we'll crumble like every other castle that once stood proud along the wall. But it's hard to know what rules are worth following if you're going to leave your friend Edd in charge of us without a choosing, and take our ships and horses and food to take part in familial affairs. It's hard to watch you leave, and then turn around and sentence Matthar to death. We want our sacrifices to make sense Jon, and right now, it's hard for us to say that they do."

Jon knew that this was his final chance to persuade his former brothers to his side. It was important that he not lose them now by saying the wrong thing, or alienating them further. And not just for he and his sisters safety. This order of men had already murdered their last two Lord Commanders. Eddison Tollett's life was potentially in danger.

"You make well reasoned points ranger Rykker. But I need you to know the decisions I've made have been thought out as well. Yes, Edd is my friend. But he is also qualified and in my view the best candidate to command right now. You all know him, he's been a brother since he was 15. He's a fighter and a survivor. He fought at the fist and survived. He commanded during the battle for Castle Black and survived. He fought White Walkers at Hardhome and survived. And if not for his quick thinking after I was murdered, Castle Black would still be under the control of traitors."

Jon looked upon them and shrugged. "Some of you may have preferred that. But the important thing is that you see that it's going to take a great deal of cooperation to survive from here on out. The Night's Watch needs to be cordial with the wildlings. And who among you do they trust?"

When the silence answered the question Jon nodded.

"They know Edd. They respect Edd. They will talk with him. And for any Lord Commander going forward, that will be extremely important. I know the Night's Watch has always prided themselves on elections. So I implore you to send for the others and hold a proper choosing after I am gone. But I see no one more worthy or battle tested. No one more practical for handling the new problems facing the Night's Watch."

"And what about your fat friend?" Brant asked.

"Yes, Sam The Slayer," Derek mocked. "We are to take no wives yet Sam betrayed his oath and was rewarded with a wagon to Old Town."

"You protected him," Brant added.

Sam hadn't told Jon which brothers beat him for trying to protect Gilly from being raped. But Jon had figured it out on his own just by watching how Gilly looked at Brant and Derek any time they were around. It took more than a little effort for Jon to stop himself from lashing out at the two black brothers. Sam and Gilly were safe now, so it served no one to defend them when Jon was already resented for sending them away.

"Perhaps you're right," Jon admitted to men that deserved execution. "I turned a blind eye to his relations with that woman. But I've never heard a brother complain about a lord commander looking the other way so he can get his needs met."

That comment brought forth several chuckles from the hall, for it was true.

"Maybe our traditions are no longer useful," Jon announced, which brought the laughter to a sudden halt. "Maybe we shouldn't have to turn a blind eye to a man and woman loving each other. Maybe it's time for men of the Night's Watch to have a woman without having to sneak and hide."

"Who are you to question thousands of years of tradition?" Fornio asked.

Jon raised his voice to match his indignant critic. "And where did those thousands of years of tradition get us? Look at us, our halls are overran with rats. We ask for help and the realm ignores us. Most of these castles are abandoned. Even the one we have manned is nearly in ruin." His voice carried years of frustration through the hall, and he could see a few there that appreciated him for saying what often went unsaid.

"Traditions aren't what have kept the Night's Watch. The will of men has." The rest of the men seemed unsure how to take his words, and he decided to use their ambivalence to his advantage. He leaned over to Edd and asked for the letter from King's Landing before standing up from his chair and holding the paper in the air.

"The ground is shaking all over Westeros. The queen herself was just thrown in prison by the high septon. Rumors has it, the Faith Militant has been revived for the first time in hundreds of years."

"Queen Margaery was thrown in a prison?" Bearded Ben asked.

"Yes, and her brother the Knight of Flowers. And the king is powerless to save them. We're living in a new realm. One where White Walkers are not just scary stories told to us at bedtime. A realm where we work with wildlings, instead of fighting them. Look, we can live by new traditions or die by old ones."

"What exactly are you proposing Jon?" asked ranger Rykker.

"After the Starks are back in power, the Night's Watch can finally began getting the resources they need. Weapons, food, men. I'm going to make sure those things are provided. And I see no reason why the rules and traditions assigned to you can't be changed. So that being a man of the Night's Watch can again carry they prestige that it once held. But it all starts with doing what is necessary. I know some of you will consider me a brother, and some a deserter, but I promise you now that after Winterfell is secured, my priority will return to the brothers here at the wall."

This seemed to please most of them in the hall, as they nodded or voiced their approval. But some men remained unmoved. Fornio was one of them.

"You said it starts with doing what is necessary," Fornio huffed. "Is that the truth of it Jon Snow?"

"Aye - I'm willing to do whatever is necessary."

"I don't believe that to be true," the ranger disputed. "Otherwise you wouldn't be leaving to fight Ramsay Bolton. You would be trying to work with him."

Jon was almost blindsided by the suggestion. "Work with him? You read his letter. You saw his threats."

"He threatened you because you are harboring his wife."

"Excuse me?" Jon asked, his hands balling into fists.

"I understand that she's your half-sister Jon Snow. But before gods and man, she rightfully belongs to him."

"Before gods and man? What kind of husband threatens to have his men gang rape his wife? He doesn't care about her. He needs her for leverage. To strengthen his grip on the north. Nothing more."

"Whatever the reason, she is his. She is not yours." Jaremy collected his words as Jon shot a look of death to him. "Look I get it. He has hurt your brother and sister. But he commands one of the largest armies in the north. If you want to do what's necessary to combat the White Walkers, don't provoke him into a fight."

"He has already been provoked," Jon threw at him.

"That may be true. The young warden is ready for a fight, ready to prove himself. But that fight need not be with wildlings. Not when the dead are coming."

Jon could see brothers nodding in agreement, and he could feel the tide again turning against him. They wanted him to convince Ramsay of the White Walker threat.

"I have no proof of the dead to present to the Boltons," Jon said. "He would not believe me.

"You also have no proof to present to any of the other northern houses," Kedge Whiteeye contended. "Yet you still have promised to persuade them to help us. So why should it be any different with the Boltons? Or the Umbers or Karstarks?"

"They are traitors of the north," he barked as if it should have been enough for them. Knowing that it wasn't made him feel sick.

Kedge just shook his head. "I'm sorry about what happened to King Robb. And the littlest brother of yours held prisoner. But I disagree. They are traitors to your family. But to the rest of us? They are battle hardened warriors, the best that the north has to offer. And how many men do they have?"

"Five thousand!" someone called out.

"Ten thousand!" someone else followed up.

"Thousands and thousands," Kedge concluded. "The last thing we need is another pointless battle that results in the lost of thousands of lives. Thousands that could help us fight the dead."

"And what makes you think you can succeed when Stannis and his sellswords failed?" Fornio asked.

"Stannis lacked support from the north. It's no surprise that he lost. I don't plan to make those same mistakes. I will rally the houses fed up with the tyranny from the Boltons." Jon took a moment to help settle the anger he felt. That they could even think of asking him to join with Ramsay rattled him to his core. "There are no terms that Ramsay would ever agree to. Nothing could make him surrender his position in order to fight the dead."

"You've never even met the man," Fornio argued. "How would you know? Because your half-sister told you?"

"The man that sent that letter would never surrender his position," Jon said as calm as he could muster.

"So let him keep it," Fornio shrugged. "If you're doing what is necessary, it shouldn't matter who is warden, who has what lands or castles or titles. If you go to the Boltons, Karstarks, and Umbers and they see that you have no desire to challenge their legitimacy, and that your only priority is fighting the dead then they would be more inclined to believe and join your cause."

"He's right," Kedge said, breaking up the silence that followed Fornio's suggestion. "We all understand that she is your sister. But when you took that oath in front of your old gods, we became brothers. Your only brothers. And even if your watch has ended, I still see you as my brother. But the right thing to do to help your brothers would be to gain the support of the Boltons, Karstarks, and Umbers. If that is your goal, I believe the majority here would support you, even in supplying ships and provisions."

"And what do you suppose I should tell my sister who has fled from Ramsay? Or my brother held captive?" Jon asked.

"Tell them the truth," Fornio insisted. "This is bigger than us all. Your sister can return to her husband, and perhaps your brother can be kept by the Boltons as a ward. At least they would be together in Winterfell. You told us to put aside our differences with the wildlings, and we did, for survival mattered more than our hatred. If we can fight side by side with them, surely you should be able to put aside your thirst for revenge, and shake hands with Ramsay Bolton. As a true show of unity for the north."

The candlestick in front of Jon went flying across the floor before he could stop himself from lashing out. His break in composure shocked all in the room, none more than Jon himself. That they could even suggest that he abandon his siblings for ships filled him with a rage that tightened every muscle in his body, and made him tremble in fear of what he would say if he opened his mouth to speak.

His teeth rattled as if he were freezing, but he was on fire as he watched the candlestick spin around on the cold floor. Only when the flame died did Jon speak.

"If you would have me hand over my sister or let that man keep my brother locked in a cell just so I can have a few ships, then..." He took a large breath, attempting to calm his anger, before he said something he would regret. "Brothers of the Night's Watch. I don't want your ships. I only want to keep the promises I have made. I promised my sister that I would bring her Ramsay's head. I promised you that I will unite the north to fight the White Walkers. As long as I live, I'm keeping both promises. But if that is not good enough for you, then it's just not fucking good enough."

Iron Emmett was the first to rise from the bench. "It's good enough for me, Jon Snow."

"It's good enough for me as well," another voice agreed, before others joined in with their support.

The meeting ended with Matthar keeping his head, and most of the Night's Watch coming to terms with Jon's departure. Jon still sensed hostility from some, which made him nervous. Mutineers could try to murder him in his sleep if they felt the cause was right. Fortunately, the ones he did sense hostility from were mostly cowards, with no leader like Thorne among them.

Edd called the meeting to a close, Bearded Ben called Matthar a lucky bastard, and they were all dismissed back to their duties. It took a few minutes for the hall to clear of everyone except Edd, who stayed with Jon for another few minutes before he too left.

When Jon was alone, he cursed out loud. Irritated, frustrated, and most of all, offended.

The only thing most of them had ever negotiated was keeping their head on their shoulder by agreeing to take the black. Yet they had pressed him as if they knew politics and diplomacy?

And it was these dismissive thoughts that made Jon realize how far he had drifted away from his black brothers.

Perhaps he had never truly felt like a brother. But he had always fought to respect the institution for what it stood for, and what it could be. But now he judged them, thought of them in such lowly terms. He wondered why he should even placate them at all. Just take their ships and food and weapons and let them cry over hurt feelings that they would do nothing about.

But then he remembered the stories they had told him that morning. The tears on their cheeks. The cracks in their voice. As lonely as Jon sometimes felt, he realized that most of them had even less of a place than he did.

Jon sat alone drinking ale, thinking about promises.

_Promise me, Jon_

_Promise me that your honor,_

_your vengeance,_

_won't get in the way,_

_of me getting,_

_what I need,_

_Promise me_

The only thing available to calm him was his ale, and his sisters scent, still there, calling to him.

He took a sip of his drink. And immediately after swallowing, he brought his finger to his nose.

Her odor smelled so good, sweet and rich, frustrating him. Hardening him just like last night.

His arousal was repulsive, and with the rage from the morning still running through him, he poured the ale on his hands and used his coat to scrub them until they were red and tender. He fell back into his chair and shut his eyes tight.

_Where did it start?_

He found himself in darkness, deep within his thoughts, revisiting all he could remember since she walked through those gates. He worked through the broken fragments of memory, stringing them together like needle and thread. Every hug, every laugh, every moment - but a clear picture never quite formed. The colors were off, and the lines were blurred.

He wanted to understand why he was having these feelings. But it meant diving into a pool of uncomfortable questions. Questions he had pretended weren't worth answering. Questions brothers should never have about their sisters.

And within this darkness, he found himself in another moment that he recognized. Hearing voices. Chasing screams.

But Jon was seduced by the voices, and charmed by the screams. Cries so precious his heart swelled with affection. Kisses and hugs so sweet, he could not stomach them. Light in his head and heavy in his chest. He kissed the most beautiful woman and fell in love with the most beautiful girl.

Jon's darkest dreams had terrified him for years. But this saccharine nightmare made him feel sick. For the fantasy tempted him into wishing it were so, even as his convictions twisted his belly into knots. Never had his desires felt so wrong. Never had being awakened from sleep felt so cruel.

His eyes snapped open and his body jerked away from a man's three-fingers.

He saw Three-Finger Hobb standing before him.

"Nightmare?" the cook asked him, his face dripping with sweat and merriment.

Jon sucked in a couple of breaths before swallowing. The nightmare he had previously of making love to his sister had been bad enough. This nightmare was even worse. "How long was I out?"

"Supper is almost ready," Hobb answered with a grin, amused by Jon having been knocked out for hours. He placed two bowls covered in cloth on the table in front of him. "You looked so tired, I ain't want to wake you."

Jon wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth and stared down at the bowls. After composing himself he asked what was for dinner.

"Stew," Hobb answered plainly before reaching over to uncover the bowls. "But for the lady, fresh baked bread, elk steak, and onions fried with bacon. And for her sweet tooth, lemon cakes."

"Lemon cakes?" Jon asked, perplexed.

"Brienne informed me of what Lady Sansa enjoys to eat," he said, using a cloth from his apron to mop the grease from his hands.

Jon could see that his sister would truly enjoy this. The steak, sliced in strips, had a seared black crust, while the center was light red and juicy looking. The onions, caramelized, were mixed with the bacon and the smell made Jon's stomach growl. The lemon cakes were frosted with sugar, and garnished with slices of lemon and grated lemon peels.

"Since when did you become such a fancy cook?" Jon asked, just starring at a meal he imagined could be served in front of the king and queen.

"As a steward, I was always instructed to make hearty meals, not fancy ones. But I've long known fancy."

Jon thought about all of the slop he had consumed in the last few years. He looked up at Castle Black's cook. "How much meat do you have frozen back there?"

He gave Jon a thoughtful look. "Enough to get us through the tougher years." He placed the cloths back on top of the bowls.

"It may seem wasteful, I just believe in treating our lady visitors with a certain measure of respect. They are afforded some luxury while being stuck around us foul mouthed, foul odored brutes," the man covered in sweat and grease chuckled. "When Stannis and his family came to Castle Black. I made sure his queen and princess were well fed. I tried to make special meals for Melisandre but she doesn't seem to eat. I even introduced the wildling girl to some flavors she never experienced out in Crasters Keep. And of course provided sweets for her babe."

"And what about Lady Brienne? What special meals have you prepared for her?"

"She doesn't fancy herself as a lady," Hobbs shrugged. "And I think she has a problem with men doing nice things for her. She doesn't want it."

Jon nodded and took the two bowls in his hands to leave. By the time he was walking out he heard the dinner bells ringing. Outside, the sun was behind the mountains, and the darkness was beginning to settle in on the castle.

The brothers of the courtyard dropped their shovels and barrels and began making their way past Jon to the common hall. They saw him carrying bowls, but no one said anything to him.

Jon did see Bearded Ben and a group of brothers with their arms around Matthar, joking that they couldn't let him out of their sight.

Brienne spotted Jon before he did and called him over, explaining that she had already escorted Sansa back to Jon's chamber. "She finished her dress, just needs to finish up a pair of gloves," she said before looking at the bowls held tight to Jon's chest. "I was heading to get her supper and bring it back to her. But I see you've taken care of that."

"So what are we eating this evening?" Podrick asked, rubbing his belly and looking at the bowls.

Jon lifted the cloth over one of the bowls and smiled before covering it back up before anyone else could see. "This is what Sansa is having. For the rest of the peasants, stew."

They all shared a knowing laugh before Brienne asked about the Night's Watch only meeting from earlier. Her and Podrick had overheard the others talking about it, but had been unable to find Jon after the meeting concluded.

He filled them in on enough details to know that they were still leaving tomorrow, and that they had many of the Night's Watch support, but he left out anything that could have made her feel as weary as he felt. He didn't want anyone worrying.

He briefly spoke with Davos while on his way to the bedchamber, cutting their meeting short by saying he didn't want his sisters dinner to get cold. When he reached his bedchamber, he didn't immediately enter. The wild day had already been exhausting, but he wasn't sure he had even reached his emotional peak. He still had not seen her face, except in his dreams, and that only added another conflicting layer of anxiety to being alone with her again.

When he finally pushed open the door, he had convinced himself that his lusty stirrings and queer feelings were born of the sexual frustration of a murdered man. He would rub himself when he had a moment alone and relieve himself of any illusion of sexual tension he sensed between them. Then he could force himself to forget the memory of his momentary perversion, and move on with his life.

But his heart fluttered when their eyes met.

Sansa had turned to see him barging in, while Ghost raised his head from slumber.  She was sitting by the fire with the gloves she was working on in her hands. She almost looked like a little girl with her legs all criss crossed, and an adorable innocence to her surprised face _._

It felt a crime for her to be so pretty.

But he spoke not what he thought. "I brought your supper."

"Come eat with me," she smiled as fire reflected from her eyes and she put her needlework aside. "I know there is enough for us both. Hobb always makes way too much for me to eat myself."

He looked at where she was sitting. "You want to eat on the floor?"

"I want to sit by the fire. Your room is cold," she said, rubbing her arms. "Grab a few pillows and sit with me."

He did as she asked and joined her next to the fire.

Her face lit up in delight when he unwrapped the steak and onions. A sexual noise escaped from her mouth when he unwrapped the lemon cakes.

Jon couldn't help but laugh. "Excited are you?"

"Gods bless your cook. I was just craving for lemon cakes."

She reached for the bowl of cake but Jon grabbed her by the wrist. "Have you forgotten your manners little sister? We don't eat sweets first. And surely not without washing our hands first."

"Please?" she begged, reaching across to steal a piece of the sugary treat.

"Absolutely not," he said firmly, though inside he was cracking up. "I will not let you spoil your supper."

"Don't be like that Jon," she pouted. "You're sounding like father. And you're too young to be sounding like an old man."

He held the bowl over her head as she reached and used his strong arm to keep her from being able to jump for it. "Wash your hands and eat your meal first."

"Seven hells," she sighed as she hopped up to retrieve soapy water from a chamber bowl. When both had cleaned their hands, she flopped back down and made a funny face that a spoiled brat might make - a face a younger Sansa had made hundreds of times before. It made him laugh.

Jon's stomach was growling once more by the time he looked at the meat and onions, no longer hot, but a juicy warmth still lingering over it.

Sansa must have heard the bubbling from his stomach. "I should make you have my leftovers but I'll be the bigger person and allow you the first bite since you're so hungry."

"A lady should eat first," he said right as his stomach roared again.

"Oh please," she she shot at him with a laugh. "Your tummy clearly disagrees."

Jon resigned himself to the truth and gathered bacon and onions along with a slice of the elk steak and shoveled it into his mouth. The meat at Castle Black was never as fresh or tender as what he remembered from Winterfell, but his immense hunger still rendered that first bite delicious. The soft moan from his lips brought another smile to his sisters face. He looked to pass the fork to her but she motioned for him to have another helping. The second bite dropped some grease down his chin which he quickly wiped away.

"Sounds like Hobb has outdone himself," she spoke as she took the fork from him and stirred up her own helping.

"Not as good as Gage, but close," Jon admitted as he watched her fork the meat and onions between her lips. He had been careful not to place the entire fork in his mouth since they were sharing, but she had no such reserves. She sucked the fork clean before chewing diligently, as if she was relishing every bit of flavor.

"You lied to me," she ended up saying after she swallowed, catching him off guard as she passed the fork back to him.

He took the fork, but didn't dig in. "Lied about what?"

"You said you would come see me in the morning." Jon thought about it, remembering their talk while on top of the wall. He opened his mouth to explain to her what happened but she broke character and laughed. "I'm teasing you. I know you had a long day. Brienne told me."

"Aye - we had a deserter. Someone I never thought would have deserted. But he came back. Which complicated things even more. So we had to have a meeting." He took her silence as a moment to have a few more bites of onions and bacon.

When he passed the fork back to her she spoke. "I'm glad you all decided not to execute him. They need the men."

"Yes but sparing his life may convince others that the rules truly don't matter anymore. That the Night's Watch is ran by boys instead of men."

They took turns picking off the meat and onions, but she seemed to be staring at him, almost as hard as she had been the night before when she seemed lost in thought. "What?" he finally asked with a half-laugh.

"Well," she paused before shrugging. "I don't think they could mistake _you_ for a boy. You're clearly a man."

He did not know how to take her words, and it appeared as if she didn't know how to take speaking them. They both looked away from each other and towards their half-eaten supper.

"I was looking at you trying to figure out what the difference was," she spoke while cutting a piece of meat. When she finally looked up at him, he instinctively brought his eyes to meet hers. He noticed her face had flushed red. He imagined his had as well. "Last I saw of you, you were a boy. But you're so different to me now."

"I grew a proper beard is all," he shrugged to laugh off the tension. "It was but a boys stubble in Winterfell."

"That it was," she giggled before focusing closely on him again. "It's fuller now. Do you plan on shaving it clean?"

"I haven't thought about it." He ran his hands over his chin and cheek, feeling how thick it had grown in. "I'll shave it down if you think it would be best for rallying. I know appearances are important to you."

He thought she might have taken offense to his final statement but she continued smiling, looking closely at his face. "I never really liked beards growing up. At least not the scruffy ones. I preferred clean shaven, well groomed men."

"Like those prissy southern men," Jon stated as he scooped onions on top of meat.

"Yes, those _prissy southern men_ ," she mocked him before touching his face with the tip of her fingers and pulling at his chin hair. "I like your beard. It frames your face well. And anyway, we are rallying the north, not the south. Northern lords respect that rugged, dark, feral appearance that you have."

Jon just looked at her until she said "you're taking too long with the fork" and reached in with her fingers to pull in her food.

"Now who looks feral," Jon threw at her as she ate red meat from her fingers like a savage. They shared a laugh as Jon tore off a piece of bread. "I remember the last time I shaved was when King Robert visited."

"I remember," Sansa said. "My mother demanded it. I remember her wanting everything to be nice and pretty, her girls, but I guess her boys too."

Jon nodded. "I spent my whole life growing that beard - that hair. I found it so unfair. Especially since I doubted that the queen would ever even see me. I let Robb and Theon convince me that at least there would be a chance to find a pretty southern girl that would enjoy our baby faces."

He didn't go into the sordid details. How Theon had personally promised Jon that he would find him a proper girl to fuck after the feast - a drunk or married one if it came to it. Or how Robb had pushed Theon aside and assured him that if he weren't ready, then he didn't have to feel pressured into taking a woman.

His half-brother had even revealed what happened the night of the last big feast in Winterfell. Robb and Alys Karstark had slipped away undetected into an empty room. Jon had always assumed he lost his virginity to her, but Robb admitted that although they had taken off their clothes, kissed, and touched each other, they had not gone all the way.

"I didn't want to dishonor her by breaking her maidenhead," Robb had told him.

But the Young Wolf had seemed confident then that one day he would marry her, and bed her without shame.

She was the first person Jon thought about when he later found out that Robb had beheaded her father while warring with the Lannisters.

After Robb had confessed to still being a virgin, Jon asked him about the serving girl, and kitchen girl, and the twins, and Hallis Mollen's daughter. All girls Jon had seen Robb flirt with, and frolic with, and sneak off with in the night. "What did you do with those girls if not bed them?" 

Robb only gave him a coy smile and shrugged. "Brother, there are things you can do to them, and things they can do to you that don't involve putting your cock inside their cunts. Use your imagination."

But it all sounded too complicated for Jon to consider. Robb cheered him up by saying that perhaps Jon would find a wife at the feast. Jon had heard plenty of stories of men falling in love with a maid at a tournament or feast. There would be plenty of dancing and maybe even weeks of fun and games - plenty of time to get to know one of those southern girls.

So Jon had used his imagination, not to think of what he could do to a naked girl other than bed her, but to conjure up the perfect girl. A pretty girl with long hair down to her back. Sometimes she had brown hair, sometimes gold, but most times, his perfect girl had Tully coloring.

He imagined her with a smile that made his heart melt and soft features that the other ladies would envy. But he spent most of his fantasy on what the girl would be like, rather than what she looked like.

Mainly, this perfect girl would make him laugh, and she would have fascinating stories to tell. She would also be kind and loving and warm. So kind, so loving, she would not care that he was a bastard. And her father would be proud to give her away once he saw how much Jon adored her. Her father might even knight him once he saw how good Jon was with a sword.

Jon had stupidly convinced himself that this was possible when the king arrived.

For once, he found himself looking forward to introducing himself to strangers. But his hopes were quickly crushed when Lady Catelyn forbade him from feasting with them.

This final disappointment had proven to him that there would be no pretty girls and kind fathers willing to accept that he was a bastard. His place was in the shadows, hidden away and shunned.

That was the night his uncle had come, the night Jon had compulsively asked him to join the Night's Watch.

He caught his sister staring at him, which broke him out of his thoughts. "Do you truly remember when the king came?" he asked. It seemed so long ago, and she had seemed so young to him. But thinking clearly, she was only four years younger, and she likely had memories just as vivid as his. 

"I will never forget it," she answered. "The bustling from servers and cooks and carpenters as they prepared food, and prepared rooms, and fixed what was broken or needed fresh paint. The nervous, excited energy we all felt - everything had to be perfect. I kept looking at myself in a mirror and finding something wrong. I went through three different kinds of braids before I finally settled on one. I spent even longer picking out the right gown."

She licked her fingers and pondered her memory. "The king called me pretty when he first laid eyes on me. I only now realize that he was relived to find me suitable enough for Joffrey - so that Cersei wouldn't fight him for forcing her son to marry some ugly wolf girl. But back then, I didn't know any better. And the excitement of it all," she said with a deep, breathy sigh. "It was a day of dreams coming true."

He thought that her memory might turn sour, since what followed was tragedy after tragedy for her house. But her smile never faded. The contemplative look on her face eventually faded into a gaze of his face again.

He smiled. "So, is _it_ the beard?"

"Is what the beard?" she asked.

"Is that what makes me look different. From a boy to a man."

Her face scrunched up as she examined him. "Hmm. Maybe _it's_ the beard. But _it_ could be the hair - tied back like that. Or maybe _it's_ the battle scars. Or perhaps a few more wrinkles than was there before. I don't know, but whatever _it_ is. _It's_ a good change. Not a boy, a man."

"I'm glad you see _it_ ," he followed, grinning.

"I would be blind if I didn't see _it_ ," she said with a smirk as she stuffed her face with bread and steak juice. "It's different with me, though. Aside from growing a little taller, I have not changed much."

"That's not true at all," Jon said as soon as he heard her words. "You've changed."

"How?" she asked, chewing softly.

"Well," he began, looking at how beautiful and womanly she was, but knowing he couldn't exactly say it like that without it sounding out of place. "You have, you know - your shape has changed."

"My shape?" she asked, feigning confusion. She truly enjoyed teasing him. "What shape is that, Jon?"

He couldn't help the wide grin on his face. "Sansa, you know. You have a woman's shape now. The kind that men notice. Like all of the men here at Castle Black. Like the one that make you special meals." He raised his fork of meat before taking a playful bite.

"I hate to sound shallow but...These are the same men that go to Mole's Town to share a bed with poxy whores. Having them notice me isn't all that flattering," she said with a frown. She looked at her wiggling toes. "I always thought I was pretty - beautiful. Everyone always told me so. But I realized when I went south that I was just a big fish in a small pond. In the capital, everyone has pretty faces, pretty hair, pretty bodies. Even the men have pretty feet."

"I saw those southern ladies when they came to Winterfell. None of them were prettier than you."

Her eyes jumped up from her feet to look at him. And he wanted to kick himself for being so honest.

"Jon, you think I'm pretty?"

"Well, sure."

"Sure?" she pouted.

"Yes, Sansa," he laughed. "You're very pretty. Very beautiful. You've always been. But you're even more beautiful now."

The smirk on her lips faded. He had only meant it as a brotherly compliment, but he hated that it didn't feel like it.

"What makes me more beautiful?" she asked softly. And at that moment, Jon was sure that his sister had never before been so interested in what he thought, about anything, let alone what made her beautiful to him.

"I don't know," he offered at first, which he could see displeased her. She wanted him to think about it, to give her something sincere. He took a deep breath and decided he would not deny her of this. "Perhaps it's your confidence. Your resilience. I'm constantly impressed by it. It's an attractive quality - beautiful even."

She tucked her bottom lip in before smiling softly. "Thank you Jon. That means a lot to me."

"You're welcome," he shrugged, not knowing why she should thank him. "But I'm only being honest."

"I know. And I like it," she said, her blue eyes twinkling. "Is there anything else you would like to be honest about?"

"About what?" he asked, poking around the food, no longer hungry.

"About me. I like when you say nice things about me. About my womanly shape - or what makes me beautiful. And I want to know what else makes you feel I have changed since you last saw me. Aside from me no longer being an ass."

They shared a playful chuckle. That made it feel innocent enough.

"Well, your voice is different," he said.

"My voice? What about it?"

"You had a soft, little girl voice back then. I remember I used to sometimes stop to hear you sing your songs. I liked the 'Gentle mother' one. Your voice was very pretty, but also timid, light. But now it's strong and sultry."

"Strong and sultry..." she repeated the words as if she had no faith in them, as if they were the ramblings of an idiot.

"I'm not a poet," he said, feeling vulnerable from trying to express feelings and thoughts that he did not truly understand himself. "I'm probably explaining myself poorly."

"No, you've explained yourself perfectly," she insisted. "It's me. I've gotten very bad at accepting compliments. I've become used to receiving compliments from people who only meant to taunt and hurt me after they said them. But you're not making fun of me."

"Not now anyway," he said with a smile.

She laughed while reaching for the bowl of sweets and breaking off a piece of the cake. "Go on then. Shower me with more compliments."

"Please?"

"Right now," she said instead, licking her fingers.

Jon took the flask from his pocket and had a sip of ale to wash down his dinner. "I change my mind," he said with a laugh. "You haven't changed at all. Still an ass."

She flicked a bit of sugared frosting at him before reaching for a lemon peel and sucking the juice from the bitter fruit, without so much as a grimace. Jon attempted to copy her, picking up one of the lemon peels and tasting the juice, but the sourness turned his face."I don't know how you eat those things like that."

She only laughed and snatched the peel away from him. He could only watch as she devoured it.

"The bitterness tastes good to me," she shrugged. "But what I don't get is why everyone loves drinking so much." She reached for his flask and took a sip once he passed it. She made a strong face and handed it back to him.

"Did you drink a lot in the south?" he asked.

"Only when it was expected of me. Being polite with the nobles often meant sitting to _enjoy_ a cup of wine with them. And please note the sarcasm in my voice when I say _enjoy_."

"I can imagine you were miserable."

"I was most of the time, though I didn't much mind the warm mulled wine when I was in the Eyrie." She continued nibbling on the cake, her face in thought. "Baelish would often have me _enjoy_ a cup of mulled wine with him, sometimes with cheese."

Jon was disturbed by how often Sansa invoked Littlefinger, moreover he could never sense the same violent hatred for him that she had for Ramsay and Joffrey.

It felt as if he had been more than just her captor. That they may have had something resembling a friendship - or worse, an intimate affair. But he chose not to confront her about his suspicions, not wanting to accuse her of anything that would offend her. Especially since she seemed to be in such a cheerful mood.

He caught himself wondering if maybe her cheerful mood was related to what had occurred between them the last time they were alone together, in this very room. No candles, no dress, just her naked body in the dark, and his roaming hands. There was no denying that Sansa had been aroused, he could smell the wetness from between her legs.

But Jon did not know if Sansa even knew what arousal was. At least a woman's arousal.

Being raped surely hadn't taught her about her own arousal.

So how would she have known what her arousal was?

Could it have happened naturally, as it had for Jon when he were a boy wondering why his cock hardened when he thought about being with a pretty girl? Could that have happened to her, except instead of growing hard, she became wet at the thought of being with a man? Could she have discovered, as Jon had, that touching herself while thinking about it felt good? _Really good._

Maybe she could have learned about a woman's arrousal from the ladies in the south? Margaery and her bed companions?

Or maybe Littlefinger, the brothel keeper, had taught her. That possibility sickened him.

He hated that it was still so much about his sister that he didn't know. But this was one thing he could not ask her in a normal conversation. She had to volunteer this if it were to be discussed, as she had her stories of abuse.

But it seemed highly unlikely that she would ever openly talk about how she felt when Jon touched her naked body. Or attempt to explain why she had moaned when Jon penetrated her with his finger.

On one hand, he hoped that she truly was ignorant of her body, and she had no coherent understanding that the wetness, and the tension in her muscles, and the moans, and the way she moved to his touch, was sexual. Then at least she wouldn't feel as guilty as he did.

But that ignorance would make him feel as if he had taken advantage of her, like every other man in charge of protecting her had since father died. How can she consent to something she doesn't understand?

And it was those tangled feelings that stopped him from rubbing between her legs while she panted and bucked to the movement. It was those feelings that made him flee from her last night.

He ran to the only place he thought she would not find him. But like a ghost haunting him, she had appeared on top of the wall with Ghost.

She told him that she didn't regret his healing. He told her that he didn't regret it either.

It was true enough, he did not regret healing her. It put his mind at ease knowing her inner legs were no longer raw and tender with blisters and that she could sit the privy without her sores bleeding.

But his regret came from being afraid of what that sexual touching, even if they denied it being sexual, would mean now that she was healed. They could promise to move on, but he had experienced something magical, something humbling, and intimate, and special with her. He feared never being able to get rid of such a vivid memory.

And that was the trouble with memories, especially conflicting ones. They came without warning, when you least wanted them in your head.

So sudden and uninvited, that while Jon was sitting there having an innocent dinner with his sister, he was also thinking about how her body had responded so sexually to his touch. And since memories rolled seamlessly to sensory experiences, he reluctantly found himself remembering how positively erotic her arousal smelled.

"Are you listening?" she asked her brother as he stared down at the floor, experiencing unwanted memories.

"I'm sorry," he said, knowing he must have been ignoring what she said. "I just have a lot on my mind."

"You look troubled," she assessed with concern.

He did not want to rekindle the argument from last night by once again lamenting the fact that he had touched her where no man should - and he was too ashamed to admit that, disgustingly, the touching stirred him . So he decided it would be best to keep his thoughts buried.

"I'm okay," he smiled, hoping that would be the end of it.

But after she studied his face, she jumped up from the floor, full of energy. "Come get on the bed," she told him. He looked up at her from the floor, confused, but she shook her head before he could even deny her request. "Come on, Jon. You helped me feel better and I want to help you feel better."

"I'm fine."

"No you're not," she said while reaching down for his hands. With a strong tug, she pulled him up. "Take off your shirt."

"No?"

"Yes," she countered. "Don't worry, I won't hurt you."

"Why do I need to take off my shirt?"

"Because I'm asking you to. Trust me."

She had trusted him when he asked her to take off her dress. But then again, it was that complete trust that led to his conflicted emotions. Still, he lifted his armor and doublet, dropping it to the floor before throwing her an uneasy look.

"This will be fun, and it will be good for your body."

"What exactly do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Lay flat on the bed," she pointed. "Don't fight me on this. You're not allowed to tell me no. Not for this."

He looked at the bed, then returned his eyes to her again before shrugging in defeat and doing as he was told, lying flat on the bed. "Can you tell me what you're going to do now?"

"I know the trip around the north will be rough. I want you well rested. So I'm going to massage your back, shoulders, legs, and arms - and I guess your butt too."

Jon immediately turned towards her. "Sansa."

"Not like what you gave me," she laughed. "The kind of rub a squire gives their knight to sooth muscle aches and tightness in their joints"

"Squires?"

"Yes - it's quite common in the capital."

"But you're not a squire and I'm no knight."

"Shut up and lay down," she directed while moving toward the bed.

She seemed determined to follow through with this massage so he shut up put his head to the bed, resigning himself to her will. She climbed onto the bed before swinging her leg around him. Once her butt was firmly planted on his lower back she started at his shoulders.

"How does this feel?" she asked after a few moments of working the hard part of his arm and back.

"Nice, I think."

"Let me know if I hurt you," she said earnestly as she pressed harder against his muscles.

It amused him that she sincerely thought her caressing could cause him pain. The soft, innocent woman. She felt like a pillow on his back, and her hands on his skin was nothing but delicate pressure. He could only give her a half-hearted "uh huh," after chuckling under his breath.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

He decided against telling her the truth. "I was just imagining Podrick offering to give Brienne a massage with her shirt off."

"Brienne would _never_ allow that," she said, the scenario causing her to crack up for several moments. "She keeps a very discreet distance between her personal space and everyone around her."

"I know who would want to give her a very nice rub," he chuckled.

"You're talking about Tormund, aren't you?" Sansa immediately said as she pressed her hands at his elbows.

"He's quite smitten with her."

"Or quite obsessed. He looks at her with a prodigious hunger that turns her stomach."

"That's too bad. He really doesn't mean any harm. He's just truly taken by her."

"Well the last thing she wants is to be _taken_ by him."

"Tormund wouldn't do that."

"You must really trust him," she said as she slid her hands on his ribs, pinching his flesh with her pointing fingers and thumbs. She chuckled to herself. "I have to admit, they would be kind of adorable together."

"You see it too, then?" Jon laughed. "It would be pretty easy to confuse their fighting for flirting."

"Think of the children," Sansa threw out with a big laugh. "Those monstrously strong, warrior children."

They found themselves making up names for Tormund and Brienne's children, Bormund, and Trienne, and other silly names. Then they described what they would look like, Trienne, a slender and tall girl with freckles and short orange hair, Bormund, a plump boy with long straw-like hair flowing down to his knees.  And soon they were sending them on adventures all across the world, riding dragons and slaying krakens. They cracked up for a long time, and along with the rub, Jon realized the anxiety he'd been feeling was being relieved, with one laugh at a time.

He loved to laugh. He just never expected that she of all people would be the one to provide him with that genuine laughter from his belly.

He remembered the stiff, humorless occasionally awful brat he grew up with. It seemed to betray reason that the woman sitting on his back was that same girl. But it was.

And he appreciated her, all of her. Her flaws and her occasional awfulness. For the past was what made her apology for mistreating him so meaningful. And their past of growing up so distant was what made the present moment of closeness with her so fulfilling.

_Look how far we've come. Look at how, against all odds, we're here. Sansa Stark and Jon Snow. A trueborn princess and a bastard. Laughing. Together._

She brought up the biggest news of the day once their laughter had calmed. "Brienne told me about Queen Margaery and Ser Loras. She took it pretty hard."

"We're still waiting for a letter from the king to confirm but it appears to be true. My immediate suspicion is that Cersei is behind it."

"It is Cersei," Sansa said without hesitation. "She would do anything to rid herself of the Tyrells, especially Margaery. She knows how to find cause for sham charges and illicit false confessions. It's how she had father imprisoned." She continued working Jon's back, applying more pressure now that she was talking about Cersei. "The faith had nowhere near the power of the crown when I was there. Cersei has to be behind it all. Such a shame, I thought Margaery would be clever enough to outsmart her."

"I hope she finds a way out of it," Jon said, for the first time truly allowing himself to consider how the queen must be feeling. Humiliated, broken, humbled, thrown in a cell like a peasant. It did not make him feel good that someone his sister respected was in such a condition. "I know you liked her."

"She was graceful - a true queen. And her family was nice as well. But I know now that they were so nice to me because they wanted me to marry Loras. They wanted my name and my claim to Winterfell." She stopped rubbing him and thought out loud. "I believe that would have been the first time a Stark married a Tyrell. It would have been a tremendous power grab for their family."

"It never even occurred to me that another house had positioned themselves to marry you off," Jon said solemnly. He was forever learning new twists to his sisters tale.

"It's not something I'm proud to speak of," she said as she went back to massaging him. "Margaery must have thought I was so stupid. I just willingly went along with their plan of me giving up the only power I still had. But they were so polite about it. I couldn't help but return the politeness and agree to whatever they wanted of me. Being friends with the future queen was better than being lonely, I suppose. Especially a queen so lovely, more beautiful and worldly and graceful than I was. In some respect, I believed I would finally be getting the sister I always wanted. I know that makes me sound pathetic."

"No, it doesn't," Jon answered as he felt her hands and fingers rubbing him harder. "I understand that you were alone and she came along offering something you didn't have, something you desperately needed."

"But it wasn't just Margaery coming along offering friendship," she stressed. "I made myself believe that Loras wanted me. I wanted to believe it, so I pretended that it were true. I ignored that he seemed uncomfortable around me. I even made excuses for it - ' _oh it's just my stunning beauty that makes him not want to look at me!'"  
_

She was raising her voice now, as her fingers stiffened at his back. Her nails were scrapping along as she rocked her entire body and worked the tension out of his muscles and joints. And surprisingly, it _almost hurt_.

"Do you remember what I told you when we were younger - about what you should say whenever a lady told you her name for the first time?"

 "I do," he smiled, the memory clear and funny to him, in hindsight. They didn't have too many interactions growing up, so the few they did have stood out. This one had revolved around his sister being so concerned about Jon, her half-brother, and a bastard, not having proper manners. That she had taken it upon herself to give him etiquette lessons. She was only five. "You told me to tell her 'that's pretty'."

"Well Loras would give me the 'that's pretty' line after nearly everything I told him. We would walk in the gardens, and he would hold my hand, and I would confide in him as if he could be trusted - and he would reward me with compliments and courtesy. Even as a child I knew they didn't mean much of anything. But I made myself believe it meant something, Jon. That's how stupid and pathetic I was."

She took a long pause before speaking again.

"He once told me that I would be the most beautiful bride in the world. I knew deep down that he didn't mean any of it. But in King's Landing, I didn't live for my deepest, truest feelings. I played the roles I was given, and I lived for the lies I wanted to believe."

"I'm so sorry you had to experience that," Jon spoke from his heart. "You didn't deserve to be used by people. I'm so sorry. I didn't know it went this deep in King's Landing. Every waking moment, people trying to use you. The Lannisters, the Tyrells. Was your engagement to Loras ever formalized?"

"No. It was to be announced after Margaery married Joffrey."

"But the Lannisters made the move before the Tyrells could," Jon noted, putting the pieces together.

"Now you see how politics work down there, getting in bed with your enemy with daggers hidden under the pillows." She scooted away from Jon's lower back so she could massage there. After working him for awhile she spoke again. "I can't believe you remembered that."

"Remembered what?"

"What I told you to say when a lady revealed her name."

"Well, I'm surprised you remember," Jon said. "You were really young."

"I remember because I made you serve me fake tea in my teacup and have a lunch with me so I could practice my table manners. And you hated every second of it." They shared a laugh together that spoke to the truth of her memory. But when the laughter calmed she massaged him gently and said with love in her voice "But you did it anyway."

A long time passed as his sister massaged him to the music of the fire, and their breathing. It might have been ten minutes, or thirty, Jon wasn't sure. All he knew was that he had a very pleasant buzz going through his body when she spoke again.

"Jon."

"Yes?"

"I want to know what your first time was like."

"My first time...doing what?"

"Making love."

"What - Why?" he laughed from the shock of it.

"I'm curious. Margaery once told me that experienced men are the ones that please women. But you weren't experienced before you first made love. So did you please Ygritte?"

"I'm not answering that."

"Why not?" she tickled at his sides.

"Stop that," he twisted but she kept at it.

"Come on, tell me."

"NO! I will not tell you about that," he tried to say sternly but failed when his voice cracked. He managed to grip both of her arms with his, stopping her from tickling him.

"I've told you so many embarrassing stories about me," she said as he kept her from moving with his grasp. "It's really not a big deal if you tell me this one uncomfortable story about you."

"First, stop trying to tickle me," he demanded.

"Alright, no more tickling."

He let go of her arms, still lying on the bed flat. "Secondly, why do you want to know so badly? From me of all people."

"Because you're the only person I know that will be honest with me about what the first time is truly like - you have no ulterior motives in trying to groom me," she told him. "You, of all people, are also the only one I trust. Plus, last night you were eager to tell me how you and her kissed after your romantic climb up the wall. I feel like it's only right that I know the rest of your love story with her."

He let her words sink in before taking a deep breath. "What exactly do you want to know?"

"Everything."

That didn't narrow it down. "Be specific."

"Where did you bed her the first time?"

"In a cave."

"A cave?!"

"Yes, inside a cave beyond the wall."

"You brought her to a cave?"

"No, she brought me to a cave."

"Did they not have beds beyond the wall?"

He couldn't help but laugh from her line of questioning, and the awkwardness of it all. Instead of answering her, he asked her to go back to massaging him so he could gather his thoughts. "Move a little over to the left. Yes, right there." She worked the spot for a few unspoken moments that he wished could have went on long enough for her to forget. But she cleared her throat, indicating that she was ready to hear his story.

"We were out collecting firewood," he said after a long sigh. "Me, Ygritte, Tormund, and the others in the party that were going to climb the wall. I was having a dispute with her, I don't remember what about, just that she got close enough to my face to unsheathe Longclaw."

"You let her disarm you?" she asked, while forcefully applying pressure to his back.

"She disarmed me with her presence long before she took my weapon away from me," he admitted. "There was something about her, where I always found myself vulnerable to her trickery. And she never hesitated to take away my power and force me to chase after her in order to regain it. It only made sense that she did that with Longclaw, running away with my priceless Valyrian Steel into some cave on a hill."

"Sounds like a good plan to get you alone," his sister said.

"Aye- she must have found the cave while scouting the land. It had a hot spring just beyond the entrance, and a natural pool under a waterfall to bathe in. When she found it, I'm sure she made up in her mind that this would be the place to tempt me. When I finally caught up to her in the cave, she took off her boots. Told me she wanted me to break my oath, then dropped her breeches and furs until she was completely naked - determined to make me choose. My vows or her."

"I reckon it was not a difficult choice."

He could not deny her assumption. Even if Jon had put forth a hint of resistance to Ygritte, telling her that they shouldn't, his reluctance was all show and no substance. "We spent all day in that cave," he mused, letting it all flow back to him. "If it was up to her, we never would have left."

He spared his sister the explicit details of his day with Ygritte. How he had kissed the lips between her legs, and slipped his tongue inside her pink wetness, and how she had shook with pleasure and screams so loud the echoes throughout the cave made his ears ring.

Or how Ygritte had told him not to hold back as he climbed on top of her. "Fuck me tender, or don't fuck me at all Jon Snow," she had told him, as his heart pounded like fist against his chest.

Or how he had to fight back tears when he slipped inside her because she felt so warm and tight and good.

Or how pathetic and ugly his cry of pleasure had been, whimpering like a hurt wolf as he trembled between her legs and spurted his seed inside her.

Or how Ygritte was both sweet and biting, teasing him before kissing him, teasing him before straddling him, teasing him before fucking him, and teasing him before saying she loved him.

Or how exhausted he felt by the time they found the will to put back on their clothes, and every muscle in his body felt sore.

The lovemaking had been a mix of highs and lows, laughs and moans, hots and colds, and truths and lies.

And although Jon chose not to tell Sansa these details and the feelings they stirred, he lay there and remembered them. And remembering was bittersweet, for his first and only lover was dead. Her body, once clung tight to his, was now but ashes in the snow.

"Did you and her make love in he hot spring?" she eventually asked after Jon had stopped speaking.

"Yes."

"That sounds beautiful."

"It was."

"Were you on top or her?"

"Sansa."

"I just want to know who was the aggressor," she insisted. "It seems like she was. And from what I understand, the aggressor gets on top. Unless perhaps you took her from the rear."

"Okay, we're finished here," he said, as he could no longer reconcile the nature of the conversation with the nature of their relationship.

"I don't mean to be crude Jon. It's just, it sounds so passionate and romantic and perfect. Losing yourself with someone you love, choosing her over your vows, making sweet love under a waterfall. I always wanted my first time to be like yours. I dreamed of a great feast, with delicious food, sweets, and lots of dancing and music. And then I would laugh as I was carried to the bed by people that loved me. And my love would place me on a bed of rose petals, surrounded by scented candles. And it would just be us under the moon and stars."

Hearing Sansa reveal how she desired to lose her virginity while her soft hands gently caressed his naked back felt like a sin. But only one of many sins he had already committed with her, and not the most damning, all actions and thoughts considered.

"Do you want to know what happened the night I married Tyrion Lannister?" she asked, her fingers feeling like soft kisses on his back. But before he could answer, she seemed to backtrack, insecure with the silence. "I know you didn't want to hear about my wedding night with Ramsay. So I'll spare you if you don't care to know."

_I want to know everything about you, Sansa. I need to know everything that shaped you into such a captivating woman.  
_

But instead of being that honest with her, he settled on something he could live with. "I care what happened to you, little sister. Tell me."

She told him about the wedding ceremony, the awful, humiliating wedding ceremony. How Joffrey had taken away the step stool so that she had to squat for the Imp to place his cloak of protection around her. How everybody in attendance seemed to either pity her, or think her predicament was a big joke to entertain the court.  How she had to dance with those same people, and thank them for their insincere well wishes.

She told him that Tyrion had tried to keep her spirits up with his self-depreciating humor, but after one too many humiliations from his family, he lost his wits and kindness at the bottom of his wine cup.

"It was such a perversion of my dreams, the feasting and music and dancing, like the gods were all having a great big laugh at my expense," she said.

With her fingers massaging his ass, and her secrets being exposed, he felt close to her in a way that felt both endearing and dangerous. The more she shared, the more he wanted to know, and the more she touched him, the easier it became to be touched by her.

"Did Margaery help to comfort you?" he asked.

"She tried but we were separated for much of the reception. But even had she been by my side, she could not save me. She was not queen yet and had to worry about her own battles," she said while squeezing his rear with a force that seemed beyond her strength. "I felt like I was suffocating in there so I excused myself for fresh air. And Joffrey seized the opportunity to corner me with his guards."

She took a moment before she gathered up her next words, which Jon knew would provoke visceral pain. Anytime she mentioned Joffrey, he knew something despicable was soon to follow. "He told me that he would pay a visit to my chamber after Tyrion passed out. He told me that he would put his baby inside me. And that his guards would hold me down if I refused him."

"Sansa."

"Don't worry, he did not follow through with his threat. The only threat that mattered was the one Tyrion threw at him," she said.

He couldn't see her face, so he had to take cues from her voice, and he had thought she might be on the verge of tears. But now, she seemed on the verge of laughter. "When Joffrey tried to get a bedding ceremony started by stripping me of my gown, my lord husband plunged his cutting knife into the table and told the king that if he proceeded with his antics then he would make sure the king fucked his bride with a wooden cock."

And almost immediately his sister sniggered like a little girl that got amused by saying naughty words - and Sansa had said several. But it was the snort that got him. The absurdity of her snort when faced with such an awful story forced an uneasy chuckle from his own chest even as he protested. "Sansa that's not funny."

Jon's ambivalence seemed to make it all the more humorous to her, as she broke out in full laughter. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said, trying to contain it. "It's just, no one talked to Joffrey like that. So it was such a shock. The entire hall fell silent. No one even breathed."

"I can imagine," Jon said. "Your husband threatened to geld the king."

"Oh yes he did. And the king sounded like a hurt kitten more than a lion. 'What did you say to me?' she mocked him. "What did you say you little ugly imp!"

"So what happened?" Jon asked, wondering how the dwarf had managed to keep his head.

"I really don't remember exactly. I was too distraught to find any of it funny and too embarrassed to even look up from the floor for fear that I might cry. I know Lord Tywin spoke to calm his grandson and Tyrion apologized for his drunken outburst but by that time I had gone inside myself to hide. I don't even remember leaving the reception and heading to the bedchamber, I was so resigned to just get it all over with and go to bed."

"And when you got to your bedchamber..."

"I remember emptying a cup of wine into my belly and slipping out of my gown. But I never made it out of my smallclothes. He couldn't do it."

"He couldn't...?" Jon didn't know how to ask if Tyrion could not get his cock hard. "Was it the wine or?"

"I can't say for sure what it was. All I know is he said that he would not share a bed with me until I wanted him to. So we never shared a bed."

Jon was thankful for the kindness of the Lannister dwarf. He had made a saddle for his crippled brother. And from Winterfell to Castle Black, Tyrion had given Jon sage and kind advice that he still found useful. But Jon was most grateful for this gesture, respecting his sister's wishes even if they violated his marital rights. _He's a good man._ But even good men had breaking points. "Do you believe he had Joffrey murdered?"

"No." She pressed her hands against his arms again, but offered nothing more to his question.

Jon wondered if Littlefinger had something to do with the murder, especially since he managed to smuggle her out moments after the king was dead. It seemed to Jon that Baelish couldn't have conceived of his plan at the exact moment of Joffrey's death. If he was as clever and cunning as Sansa said, then he must have had a large role in creating the chaos that allowed him to steal her away while also gaining her trust.

But surely if he had something to do with it, Sansa would have told him by now. But she hadn't. So what did that mean?

"Whenever you talk about your time in the capital, I can hear the hate in your voice," Jon said as she rubbed him, their roles reversed from previous massages. "With Cersei, Joffrey, and fathers killers snaking about. It's clear why you were miserable. But I've yet to hear you speak ill of your time in the Vale. I don't hear the hate in your voice when you mention being there with Littlefinger."

Her hands stopped massaging him after he said that. It seemed to catch her off guard. "Well, it was a little less stressful," she ended up saying as her fingers moved about his skin with about as much certainty as her voice. "The Eyrie was a much quieter, emptier place. I had a lot of time alone. And the time I did have to spend around people, I spent it pretending to be Petyr's niece Alayne."

"Yes, you've told me that. And I can easily believe that Littlefinger was clever enough to conceal you from the Lords of the Vale, but surely he couldn't have fooled your aunt."

Again there was hesitation in her. "My aunt Lysa went along with it to keep me safe." She seemed dissatisfied with her own words because she sighed. "Actually, she did it more because Petyr wanted her to go along with it. She was madly in love with Petyr and would do anything he could ever ask of her."

The puzzle pieces didn't fit in his head. "So why would a newlywed go and commit suicide, leaving behind the love of her life, and her sickly son?" When she again paused before answering, he stopped her from touching him and forced her to climb onto the bed from off his back. He needed to look at her. "Don't lie to me, Sansa."

"I just don't want you to hate me," she said, admitting that there was more to this story than she'd revealed. She looked ashamed, and wouldn't look him square in the eye.

"Look at me. _Look at me_ ," he demanded until her eyes were locked with his. "I love you. You're not going to run me off. You can trust me with your secrets."

Jon could see a weight being lifted off her back. It terrified him that she held these secrets even closer to her than the humiliating songs that she had already shared with him. If these secrets were worse than that, then maybe she had reason to fear being hated.

He decided to go in gently. "When you arrived here, you told me that your lady mother and Aunt Lysa had been distant over a man. Petyr?"

"Yes. Petyr loved my mother. He has since he was a child. And even after she married father, his affection for her persisted."

It was beginning to become clearer to him, why Littlefinger had taken an interest in his sister. "You inherited your mothers beauty. Surely he noticed it."

"He noticed me in the capital long before I noticed him," she admitted. "He was always teaching me things. Sharing stories with me, flattering me. I thought he was just friendly. I didn't see the want behind his mask of kindness until I had already entrusted my life to him. I was stupid. I should have listened to my handmaiden Shae. She saw him for what he was, and for what he wanted."

He could no longer hold the question that most burned in his head, especially now that she was being completely honest about her time with him. "Did Littlefinger ever hurt you?"

"No," she said without even a second to ponder. "I mean, not like that. He's not Joffrey, or Ramsay. He's _something different_. It's difficult to explain now, but it was even more difficult to grasp then. I wish I could say I hated every moment with him but I can't. He has a way with words - a way of making conversations feel important, thrilling, dangerous. Our talks were puzzles that I longed to solve. He shared enough of himself to pique my curiosity but withheld enough to leave me in suspense. That was his way of controlling me, manipulating me, and hurting me."

"When did you realize he was doing all of those things to you?"

"That's what frustrates me the most. I didn't truly know until I was alone with Ramsay on my wedding night. It took being thrown on the bed before I truly accepted that Petyr had betrayed me." He could see the anger in her face now. "You don't understand. It was so confusing watching him play so many roles. He was my captor, my teacher, my uncle, my lord, my cure for boredom, my only chance at revenge.  He even told me that he could have been my father. And then he kissed me. Not a peck to my face, like a father gives to his daughter. A kiss. I can still taste the mint of his mouth."

The confession was so calm that Jon could not discern how it made her feel. And that bothered him even more than the fact that this old man had kissed her. _Where are you going with this?_

"My aunt saw the whole thing. But she waited until later that day before she sent for me to join her in the high hall." Her eyes narrowed. "Jon, I've never seen a woman more unhinged. She said I was just like my mother, a whore. Accused me of wanting her husband. And she grabbed me by the hair and screamed 'he is mine' while trying to shove me through the moon door. I looked down from the heavens, down to the rocks hundreds of feet below and everything went silent. I felt the wind in my face. I remember feeling that this was the end. And it would have been, if not for Petyr."

Petyr was the reason she was in such a dangerous predicament in the first place, he wanted to say. But he let her finish, out of respect for her, and because he was dying to know how it ended.

"With mere words he calmed her from hysteria. He walked right up to her, calm, talking poetry. My aunt was one of the most powerful women in Westeros, yet she was truly wrapped around his little finger. She's dead now. The lords of the Vale believes she jumped."

"How did those lords come to believe that she truly committed suicide? It's too convenient. Too beneficial for her new husband. I cannot believe they accepted her fate on his word alone."

"It was my testimony that convinced them," she said. It came out cold and heavy. "I could have had Baelish executed Jon. The lords of the Vale had no love for him. And they were ready to convict him of murdering their lady. All they needed was for me to tell them what happened."

"And what did you tell them?" Jon asked, nearly in disbelief that she defended him.

"I told them that I was Sansa Stark. I told them about Lord Baelish kissing me in the courtyard. I was shaking, crying, and very convincing because of it. When I was done giving my testimony, they were convinced that my crazy aunt had thrown herself through the moon doors in grief out of jealousy. Because I'm so beautiful and she is so ugly. Jealousy killed her."

She let this confession sit in the air for a long while before speaking again. "I figured I would be safer with someone I knew. I didn't know the lords of The Vale. But I thought I knew Petyr. I cannot even bear to think of what my mother and father would think of me now. How I could let my aunts murderer go free. I know you must think less of me. I think less of myself any time I think about it. "

"I don't think any less of you," Jon told her. It even surprised him, but he was proud that she trusted him enough to share that part of her. He was also a bit relieved that this was the worst of it. She had not acted honorably. But Jon was beginning to see that there was more to this journey than honor.

What worried him was not that she had lied to survive, but that even now, she blamed herself more than she blamed Littlefinger.

"We've both done things we aren't proud of. It makes sense why you protected him. He saved you from the Lannisters. He pointed you towards a path of revenge." He exhaled, imagining this mysterious faceless man kissing his sister. "He wanted your mother. It makes sense why he would come to want you."

"If Petyr Baelish truly wanted me, he would have taken me for himself," she spat. And for once, he heard the loathing in her voice. But it also sounded like sadness. "He needed me to sell to the Boltons. Probably got more out of the deal since I was intact. I was nothing more to him than a high priced virgin. His kindness and feigned attraction was just a way to woo me the way he wooed my aunt. Now he has control over the Knights of the Vale, and an alliance with the bastard controlling the north." She bit her lip. "No offense to bastards."

"None taken," he assured her. Jon did not believe that Littlefinger had feigned attraction to her. Even though his only insight into the man was through her words, he could not comprehend a hot blooded man needing to pretend that he wanted her. But he knew he could not say this without exposing himself. "I wonder if your mother and Baelish ever..." he stopped as he saw her face change.

"Absolutely not," she barked, incensed over the suggestion. "My mother was promised to uncle Brandon. And she would have never done anything with the little snake. That's why his obsession with her persisted."

Jon immediately apologized to her. "I didn't mean to sully your mothers name with the insinuation. It's just - father is the greatest man I knew. And he forsook his marital vows if only for the unholy night that it took to conceive me. It's hard for me to trust marriage vows, especially marriages that come about for duty instead of desire."

"I know how you feel. I've said my marriage vows twice in front of both my mothers and fathers gods without meaning any of it. I'm getting quite good at it." Her smile faded when Jon didn't find humor in her predicament. "I know I'll have to marry again. For highborn girls, it almost always will be for duty, not desire."

"No," Jon shook his head. "You've done your duty. When you are ready to marry again, it will be your choice. Your desire. We'll find someone that wants more than your name, and more than your ability to give him sons carrying his own."

"We?"

"Yes, someone will have to give you away."

"Well, I agree that it will be my choice to make. I'm not letting anyone pick my spouse for me again. But I have given up on the idea of desire being of importance. I care most about restoring our honor and rebuilding my home. And that will likely mean forming a marriage alliance with a house that can help us politically. I'm sure there are still plenty of suitors that will value the Stark name. Maybe one of the Manderly's, or a Karstark."

"They don't deserve you," he shot. He wasn't sure anyone _deserved_ her, but especially not them. "They have not been loyal."

"If we paid them a visit, we could remind them to be loyal."

But Jon shook his head. "Even if they joined our cause, Lord Manderly lost his sons during..." he trailed off and she gave a look indicating that she understood why. "And the only remaining Karstark son - I wouldn't trust him after Robb executed his father."

She nodded, then lifted her chin in a thinking pose. "What about Dickon Tarly? The handsome young man I saw in the capital."

"Sam's brother?"

"Yes, why not him?"

"The Tarly's are too far south to help us. Plus they would be betraying the crown."

She giggled. "Well how about Tormund?"

"Sansa."

"Hey, you did say you trusted him. And what a way to truly unite the north then for a Stark to marry a wildling."

He could tell she was only proposing in jest so he thought up a clever rebuttal. "Okay, say you married him. How would you feel knowing that your husband actually wanted your best Knight?"

Her face crumbled as if she smelled something foul. "You're right, I couldn't stomach that." They went through dozens of other names from various houses and regions, and Jon found cause to shoot them all down. She finally threw up her hands. "I give up. It appears you wouldn't be willing to give me away to anyone."

"Unless they deserve you, I won't," he said the words of a protective big brother. _Or a jealous one._

She lay back against the bed and yawned. "So did you enjoy your massage?"

"It was actually quite relaxing," he said, looking past her to the window and seeing that they had talked well past nightfall. It was only then that he noticed the room had darkened, with only the faint glow of a dozen candles keeping the bed area somewhat lit. The relatively few lit candles was why she had said his bedchamber was colder than the others. It didn't help that he hadn't fed his fireplace. "It's late and we have to leave early in the morning. You still working on your garments?"

"I'm mostly finished. Just need to add a few finishing touches."

"This may be the last time we get to sleep in a proper bed for a long time," Jon said, thinking about the weeks of hard travel that were ahead of them. "So you really should be getting to bed so you can enjoy it."

"Don't do that. You need sleep even more than I," she said to him like a protective sister. "You didn't get any rest last night."

"Apparently you didn't either. I saw that you mopped up the floor after seeing Melisandre."

"We both need the rest," she acknowledged.

She moved to scoot under the covers and motioned for Jon to do the same. Though Jon was not sleepy, it hit him then that he _was tired_. The uncomfortable slumber in the common hall did not count as proper rest. Not when it included such an intense dream that left Jon abashed.

Once Jon unlaced and kicked off his boots and socks, he joined her under the covers, still shirtless, but pushed to one end of the large bed to give them an appropriate amount of distance between them. But once he was fully settled, he glanced over at her and noticed her bare shoulders. And the cleavage of her chest gave him no indication that she had on any smallclothes under the covers.

"Did you...disrobe?"

Her face turned red as he felt her body shift in the bed. "You said you wanted me to enjoy my night's rest."

"You can't do that wearing smallclothes?" he asked, wondering how in the time it took to unlace his boots she had stripped herself naked. She must not have been wearing anything underneath her dress this whole time. That startling realization made every innocent moment that came before feel wicked.

"Jon, this is how I usually sleep - how any woman would choose to spend her last night in a proper bed. Without a stitch of clothing. Plus, the feeling of the furs and linen against my skin makes me feel right in my own body again. And who knows what will happen after tonight. This may be the last time I have this choice." She held the cover tight to her chest with one hand and nudged him with her other arm. "Come on, I'm not trying to entice you. This bed is big enough for us to share without us touching."

Though convincing and well reasoned, Jon still wasn't comfortable with the idea of sleeping in a bed with his naked sister. But protesting it after it came so casually to her felt like he was the one making it sinful. There was nothing inherently wrong with nudity, and nothing amiss about desiring to sleep in the nude. If he couldn't handle what she was proposing, then perhaps it spoke more to his perversion than even his uncontrollable dreams did.

"Stay on your side, and I'll stay on mine," he finally said.

She moved a strand of her hair behind her ear and smiled. "Goodnight, Jon."

"Goodnight, little sister."

He felt his head swimming as he looked at her, lying so close to him, naked, and innocent, with a string of beautiful red hair just slightly out of place, dangling in front of her blue eyes. _Beautiful._ He closed his eyes and turned on his side away from her, not because that position offered him the most comfort, but so wouldn't be tempted to take peaks at her while she slept. And he lay like that for a long time, restless, replaying his night with her in his head, until she stirred in bed.

"Are you sleeping?" she asked.

"No."

"Me either."

He continued looking at the bedside table. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. It's just. I have all of these thoughts running through my head.

He swallowed the lump of stone in his throat. "Thoughts about what?"

"Rallying the north. Rebuilding our home. Marrying again."

"You shouldn't be worrying about that right now," Jon advised. "You'll have plenty of-"

"I was thinking maybe you should marry me," she blurted out loud.

He felt as if a bucket of freezing water had been dumped on him. The long uncomfortable silence only made the shock more palpable. He laughed, if only for defense against the discomfort. "Don't be silly."

"I'm serious," she said without any hint that she were setting him up for a joke. "You wouldn't have to be a bastard anymore. You could take my name and become Jon Stark. Many noble houses have had matrilineal marriages to keep their houses from dying out. We could keep the Stark line going." She did not mention Bran or Rickon, but it was clear that she was past the point of considering the worst for them.  "If you were a legitimate Stark, _you_ could be Lord of Winterfell...or even King in the North. And I would be your queen. What better way to unite the north than giving them a king and queen of true northerners."

"If there is a King to lead the north, it's Rickon or Bran. Not me."

"We cannot count them as survivors. It would be naive to." She sighed. "Can you turn around to look at me?" He gathered himself, still so shaken by what his sister was saying, and turned to face her, holding out hope that she were suggesting this in jest. But there was no hint of amusement on her face. _She is dead serious about this._ "I don't mean to write off our brothers, but I'm just being practical."

"No," was all he said, all he could say to this madness.

"Why not?" she asked, as if it needed explaining.

"It should be obvious."

"The Targaryens united seven kingdoms through wedding and bedding of brother and sister."

"We're not Targaryens!" he snapped.

"Yes, you're a Snow. I'm a Stark. You're not apart of our dynasty. We didn't come from the same womb. We did not even grow up as true brothers and sisters do. It's not as shameful as you're making it seem. Even our lord father was the product of cousins marrying."

"Cousins are not the same as siblings, even half-siblings." He was raising his voice far beyond what he intended, which made every word of his sound harsh and biting. A stark contrast to the soft sweetness of her own. "The north would reject us as perverts. Like the Lannisters."

"The north would see us as survivors," she argued, her voice raised. "The last children of Ned Stark, battling back from the brink of destruction. Doing whatever it took to save their house. They would rally around that."

"Sansa stop it," he barked. "I understand that you enjoy scheming and plotting. After spending so much time with people like Littlefinger, and Cersei, and Margaery, it makes sense. But we're not those people. _You're not that person._ We are going to rescue Rickon, find Bran, find Arya. That is how we save your house from destruction. Not you disgracing yourself by marrying your fathers bastard."

He knew as soon as he said it that his words had injured her. And he felt cruel and phony. How could he yell at her for thinking through solutions to save her house, while he was the one having despicable dreams? The one that stooped so low as to arouse himself with the smell of his finger after it had been inside her?  He was a hypocrite, a perverted sham of a brother. And his anger had been misplaced aggression because of his own disgusting desires.

"I'm sorry for making such a stupid proposal," she said weakly. "I feel disgraced for even thinking it, let alone speaking it out loud." She turned away from him suddenly, as if she was truly ashamed, and wrapped herself in the covers.

He wanted to reach out to her, to hug her and comfort her, and tell her that she was not stupid. But cowardice prevailed.

Several minutes must have passed before he worked up the nerve to speak. "It's unfair for you to have to carry the weight of your house on your shoulders. You've been through so much, Sansa. The next time a man says his vows to you, he needs to mean them. You deserve a man that will want you because of who you are. Not because you have a claim to a castle. But because he finds every part of you attractive. Your mind, and body, and spirit. "

In his haste to paint the perfect husband for her, he had totally overlooked what he was saying about himself. The cold shoulder she continued to give him illustrated his tone deafness. _I'm making it worse._

He breathed heavily, wishing he could start this entire conversation over. "I don't mean to imply that I don't find you attractive. I do." _Dammit, what did you say that for?_ But he didn't know what to say. All of his words were clumsily falling out of his mouth.

"What I'm trying to say - I care about you. Not just because we share blood. But because I've gotten to know you more in the past week than when we were children. Who knew behind all of the perfume and courtesy was such a complicated girl, so sharp, and witty, and funny, and brave. Here I thought all of this time that you were just a boring brat. You can still be a brat, but you're certainly not boring."

And for the first time since she turned her back on him, she moved. It was subtle at first, a hand to her face. But then her shoulders began to tremble. She was laughing silently to herself. "I resent that," she said, trying to keep up the appearance of being angry. But the crack in her voice betrayed her.

"Don't be mad at me," he pleaded with her. "Any sane man would be lucky to take you for a bride. But I want the best for you. And I'm not going to let you think you're so desperate that you need to consider the unthinkable. You're not out of options, and I refuse to see you deceive yourself into believing there is no other way. We can rally without me being a Stark. And if something happens to Bran and Rickon, we'll find another way to ensure your house does not die with them. But not this way. Not settling for someone like me."

She waited for a few moments before turning back around to face him, carefully, slowly, making sure she stayed hidden behind the furs. She appeared to have accepted his words, the stone cold anger gone from her body and eyes. But what replaced it looked like pity. He thought it may have been self pity, as rejection often seemed to provoke, but he learned that it wasn't that. "You think too lowly of yourself," was all she said before she leaned across the bed to place a delicate kiss on his cheek. "Goodnight Jon."

Jon drifted in and out of dreamless, shallow sleep. He wanted to sleep deeply, for he knew his body needed it. But he was ever so slightly conscious of his naked sister lying next to him. Her soft breathing was like comforting music that he needed to listen to, and every time she stirred, his eyes shot open. And every time he was roused, he noticed she had moved a little bit closer to him.

He was half-asleep when he felt her arm fall across his bare chest. She had been instructed to stay on her side of the bed, but her sleeping body did not follow rules. His cold room had her shivering, and instinctively, her body had found his warmth.  He should have recoiled away as if her skin were flames. But his body remained still, paralyzed, stiff and breathless like a corpse.

But he wasn't sleeping, or lame, or dead. He was so alive, caught between peace and panic as he felt his sisters face nestle against his chest. It all felt surreal, dreamlike.  Her breath blowing softly against his face. Her nipple pushed against his side. Her fingers clasped underneath his arm. Her leg draped across his leg. And still he did not move. A prisoner to her nude body. Soft as silk and warm as blood.

With his eyes shut tight, he fought with himself over what he should do. But his indecision seemed decisive enough.  He moved for the first time. He felt as if he breathed for the first time. But instead of moving to push her away. He wrapped his arm around her slender shoulders and hugged her closer to him, her naked chest rising and falling against his naked chest. Stroking her soft skin with his fingers, she stirred without fully waking, and he placed a gentle kiss to her temple. _Enjoy your rest, you beautiful, complicated girl._

It was peaceful after that. And everything felt soft. The bed. The pillows. The furs and sheets. Her breathing. Her body.  Cozy and warm.

And right as Jon had committed himself to enjoying this intimate rest with Sansa, his thoughts turned sexual.

He imagined her waking up from her sleep and kissing his lips. And the kissing would lead to touching and the touching would lead to fondling. And before he could stop it, he was aroused, his cock stiff, and throbbing, as he fantasized about making love to the naked woman in his arms.

Perhaps it was the guilt of his thoughts that made him feel as if they were not alone.

But when he opened his eyes, he found nothing but the darkness watching them sleep. He scanned the room, spotting Ghost sleeping next to the fireplace, finding nothing out of place.

He thought about the brothers of the nights watch. The ones Bearded Ben had spoken of. The ones that still resented him. The ones that would have every reason to sneak into his chamber in the middle of night and murder him in his sleep. Their hostility kept Jon's eyes open as he listened to his sister breathe and stroked her hair.

Eventually, the paranoia wore off enough for him to ease his eyes back closed, intending to find sleep and not fantasize about something so wrong. But sleep evaded him. The air felt frozen, and the strange feeling of being watched would not leave him, nor the throbbing of his cock. Still, he fought for the rest he desperately needed. It was the middle of the night, and he knew the mind could play tricks in the darkness. But try as he could to reason away the foreboding feeling in the pit of his belly, it lingered, until suddenly he knew without question that an uninvited presence was there. And he feared that he knew what evil brought cold and death with them.

But Jon opened his eyes not to white walkers and their thralls. But something more terrifying.

"I always knew you were the enemy, bastard," Catelyn Stark spoke, looking down on Jon sleeping with her naked daughter. Her eyes were a dead color. But she was alive. And she snatched the covers away from them, exposing them fully. Jon tried to shield himself, but he could not move.

"You look upon your own sister with lust," she said, tears in her enraged eyes. "Your own flesh and blood. And you desire her, bastard."

Sansa lay asleep in his arms, oblivious that her mother had returned from the grave.

"You've defiled your own sister with unspeakable acts," she levied crimes at him. "Your very hands and fingers, cursed with the scent of her filth. You are filth, bastard. An abomination. And now you plot to steal the birthright from my children. I always knew you would be the bane to this house, bastard. I should have smothered you as a babe when I had the chance."

Jon finally broke free of his invisible shackles and sat up to explain himself. But he was shocked into silence when he saw more figures standing behind her. The deepest feeling of shame washed over him, as he lay bare and exposed in front of the people he loved most. All standing there, watching him in bed with his naked sister.

"Deserter," Jeor Mormont shook his head. "A disgrace to The Night's Watch."

"To think I once called you brother," Robb seethed. "Bastard."

Ygritte spat right in his face, too angry to speak as she shook in rage.

"How could you Jon," Arya screamed at him as Rickon and Bran looked at him with disgust. She pointed needle in his face. "I loved you as my brother. But mother was right about you. I hate you, bastard. I hate you."

Ned Stark stood unflinching, Ice in his grasp. "I Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die, bastard."

He pleaded but they did not care to hear his excuses. His sins had caught up with him.

"Jon," he heard Sansa call for him. But when he turned his head to face her, all he saw were her icy eyes. With teeth as sharp as blades, the monster lunged at him.

Jon broke out of the nightmare in a cold sweat, finding his sister resting peacefully in his arms. But Jon knew he could not simply drift back to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he ended up having a perverted nightmare.

_Enough._

He pushed himself away from his sister and moved out of bed, ready to relieve his tension and get these morbid fantasies out of his head. Jon had not experienced a release since returning from death - the last time he remembered finding his pleasure had been after he rejected Melisandre, and the lust had been too much to take.

Now, he wasn't sure if it was lust, or frustration, or just clear and wicked perversion, but something needed to be done, or he was sure these nightmares of lust and guilt would keep finding him in his sleep.

Ghost tried to follow him out of the chamber but he told him to stay, as he walked across the room and slid out of the door after making sure Sansa was still sleeping. He walked to the edge of the balcony and looked out into the snowy, empty courtyard. After making sure the coast was clear, he unlaced his pants and slid them down low enough that his cock fell out, already stiff. He spit in his hand and grabbed his member, stroking it savagely while thinking unforgivable thoughts about his sister.

Now was the time to get it all out of him.

The sight of her naked body, the soft meat of her breast and ass, the muscles in her thighs and legs, the sound of her moans and whimpering, the scent of her wet cunt and powdered asshole, it all brought Jon to a primal place of rising pleasure, strength and weakness. And when he reached his peak, he made a pathetic noise as a powerful blast of his seed shot free, sending spurt after spurt of the hot liquid into the cold night. The explosion was so exhausting, his knees nearly buckled as he jerked himself to completion.

And almost immediately after his arousal faded, a strong feeling of guilt set in. His hand was covered in the mess he made, and the cold wind made him acutely aware that his pants were pulled halfway down. _This was dirty and ugly and I am so ashamed._

He used his clean hand to pull his pants up, before wiping his seed-covered hand against the snow covered railing. He was in the middle of wiping his hand clean when he heard Sansa call his name. He spun around, terrified that she had seen the whole thing. But the look on her face didn't suggest that she had.

She was wrapped in the furs, her hair dangling innocently over her face. "Are you okay?"

"I had a nightmare," he said, catching his breath. "I just needed to get some fresh air."

"Oh," she said softly as a gust of wind threw her hair in the air. She held the covers tighter. "I was worried when I woke up and you weren't there."

"I'm fine," he assured her, as he shivered from being shirtless in the cold of night. "You can go back to bed."

"I won't be able to sleep knowing you're out here alone," she said as she looked at him trembling. "You're freezing. Come back inside."

He knew she was right. And he was in no position emotionally to say no to her.

He followed her back inside the chamber and she led him right to the fireplace. They both sat down by the fire and placed their hands near the flames to warm up. After pulling the furs closer against her chest to cover up her cleavage she looked at him.

"Do you want to talk about your nightmare?"

He couldn't tell her the whole truth - but he found it difficult to completely turn her away whenever she pried. "I dream of the dead sometimes," he answered truthfully.

He thought that she might ask him a hundred more questions like she normally did. But she didn't. That simple and short answer had been enough for her. Or maybe it was the look on his face that spoke the loudest. She nodded with a soft smile and reached for his hand, intertwining her fingers with his.

"Mother used to sing this to me whenever I had nightmares," she said before entering into song.

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy_

_Save our sons from war, we pray_

_Stay the swords and stay the arrows_

_Let them know a better day_

_Gentle Mother, strength of women_

_Help our daughters through this fray_

_Soothe the wrath and tame the fury_

_Teach us all a kinder way_

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy_

_Save our sons from war, we pray_

_Stay the swords and stay the arrows_

_Let them know a better day_

He wanted to confess to doing something terrible, for breaking trust with her, and betraying his role as her brother. But her voice carried him over the pit of sorrow that threatened to consume him.  Hot wetness pooled in Jon's eyes as he lay his head on her shoulder so she could not see his tears. Her voice was nurturing, mature, gentle, and warm - and free of judgement.

Even after she was done singing the words, she hummed the tune, her voice like a sword cutting through the demons in this battle with shame and guilt.

And somehow, he found himself at peace.


End file.
